A Brother's Choice
by katreeny
Summary: In 1948 Germany discovers Prussia lied to the Allies about being the evil genius behind World War 2. The consequences are far reaching. Prussia-centric. Mentions of assorted WW2 unpleasantness, language gets a bit ripe especially when Prussia is on a tear.
1. Chapter 1

The fireplace cast a warm light on the office, in stark contrast to the business-suited figure at the desk. A tall man with icy blue eyes, his blond hair slicked back and his face set in a cold non-expression, he barely moved as he read through file after file, turning each page and setting it neatly on the pile of files he'd already finished. The three dogs asleep by the fire moved more than he did.

Only someone who knew him very well indeed would have caught the slight tremble of his hands as he turned the pages, the hint of unsteadiness in his breathing. The avatar and personification of Germany had the kind of self-control that left others wondering whether he was capable of emotion at all. Until something broke that iron self-discipline.

Another page turn. Germany froze, utterly still.

The latest page, yet another in the endless, detailed catalog of records from the death camps - _why hadn't he felt their pain? They were his people_ - lay on the desk, silently taunting. Words, phrases, dates. _Prisoner 671034, admitted 17th April, 1942. Height: 178 centimeters. Weight 75.5 kilograms. Identifying marks: typical albino coloring with numerous scars on torso. Subhuman class: Defective, subclass Albino. Other: Prisoner is extremely dangerous and must remain fully restrained at all times. Prior to arrest, prisoners used the protection and status of a ranking relative to conceal enemies and subhumans. Convicted on multiple counts of espionage and treason 12th April, 1942_. There was no name, of course. Those sent to die weren't human, or so his - thankfully former - boss had claimed. Germany didn't need a name.

His hands clenched. This, reading through the records of the horrors done in his name, things he'd never known were happening, might be mercy beside what his brother endured but... knowing his brother hadn't been the coward the Allies claimed, hadn't been 'hiding' in Auschwitz but had been an inmate... This was Hell. He knew his brother was no coward, knew he'd never have tried to pass himself off as a captive, but his brother was _good_ at concealing his real motives. Better than Germany himself, though instead of the blank non-expression others thought of as a fierce glare his brother taunted and blustered.

He swallowed and closed his eyes, opened them as nauseating images from the camps he'd been forced to visit rose in his mind. The seething tangle of rage, guilt, and confused grief - _why hadn't he known? __Why_? - erupted.

He didn't realize he'd screamed until a too-familiar voice said in English, "Hey dude, could you keep it down? Some of us are trying to sleep."

Germany's hands trembled when he picked up the piece of paper and handed it to the speaker. "You do read German, I hope?"

The other man - the avatar and personification of the United States, usually known as America - nodded. "Yeah. Just don't tell anyone." He grinned and adjusted his glasses. "I don't want to ruin my reputation."

At any other time Germany would have rolled his eyes. Not this time. Not now.

He knew when America realized what he was reading. He paled, swallowed. Lifted one hand and ran it through his wheat-gold hair. Finally, he said, "_Fuck_." After a long moment, he repeated the word several times, his voice getting stronger each time.

Germany didn't swear. He simply took the paper when it fell from America's hands and set it on the desk.

America sighed. "Come on. I need something to drink before we start trying to work out what to do now." He made a sour face.

_We_? Germany chose not to voice the thought. America was in his home as warden, not guest. Whether his effective house-arrest was justified or not, it was a fact and he'd be a fool to antagonize the most merciful of his jailers. England would have laughed and made a sarcastic comment about well-earned punishment. France would have shrugged and claimed that was war - not that either of them lacked justification. Germany's brother was no innocent: he simply hadn't committed the crimes he'd been punished for.

Not that there was anything 'simple' about the avatar of the former nation of Prussia. He liked people to think he was just a barbarian, interested in nothing more than fighting, beer, fornication, and food - not necessarily in that order, either - something which had given many of his enemies and rivals - he'd have said he didn't have friends - unpleasant surprises over the years. It appeared that Prussia had done it again.

Three bottles of beer later, Germany slumped in his chair in the living room. His chest wasn't quite so tight, and he could think past the knot of shocked grief.

"You didn't know." America wasn't asking.

He shook his head. "I didn't know about any of it. I didn't feel it." Another slow shake of his head, bewildered. "I felt the battles, your bombings... But not the camps." He shouldn't have admitted that, should never have given the Allies another reason to call him a monster.

Those so-innocent sky blue eyes behind the glasses lost their focus. "Huh. I never heard... Wait, I totally know that's possible! I've done it myself."

Germany blinked. That made no sense. His people had been tortured and killed by his people and he'd known nothing. That shouldn't have been possible - he'd _known_ it wasn't possible until the knowledge had been shattered by the reality of the camps.

America shrugged. "Confession time," he said in a soft voice that was nothing like his normal brashness. "Way back, before England and France found us, me and Canada used to share everything. Even the land. He always called further north than me, but if I was sick or injured, he'd take some of it for me, and if he was, I'd do the same for him. I think it takes being close and having land that you both identify with."

The room faded and dissolved.

#

Germany woke to America leaning over him, looking concerned. "You okay dude? That was seriously freaky, you passing out like that."

_Americans_. Not that it was the other avatar's fault: he was the embodiment of his people, after all. That meant he got their obnoxious traits as well as the good ones. Germany wasn't sure if it was better to have the stoicism and obedience of his people or the brash openness of America's. Not any more. Not after leading his people to Hell. Twice.

"What you said..." Germany swallowed. "My brother fits that description." He closed his eyes. "Why didn't he say anything?"

"Um. Dude." America sounded hesitant. "Would you have listened? Back then, I mean."

All the stoicism in the world couldn't have stopped Germany's wince. "Likely not," he admitted. His eyes burned and he hoped it was just fatigue. He'd already shown too much weakness to the American.

"Yeah." America didn't seem triumphant, though. "I gotta make some calls. If you're not gonna sleep, why not put that record someplace safe and see if you can dig out the transcripts of his trial."

Germany winced again. He had no doubt that somewhere in the mountain of records - so very systematic, his people - he'd find a transcript of Prussia's trial. Reading that... No matter how much he hated the thought, it was his duty. His fault.

If his hands weren't steady when he picked up the the camp manifest record that was only because it was so late, wasn't it? And if his eyes blurred when he rested it carefully on the top shelf of the safe, well, that was just tiredness because a good German soldier doesn't cry even when he learns just how much his older brother sacrificed for him, does he? Even when his brother deliberately took the suffering _Germany_ deserved and lied to the Allied powers when he said it was _Prussia's_ doing, Prussia's ideas, Prussia's dreams of reclaiming lost power...

He didn't see the safe door when he closed it, didn't see his office at all when he stumbled to the desk and slumped into the chair. After a while, he didn't see anything.

#

America put the phone down in time to hear something hit the floor in the direction of Germany's office. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "It's too late for this." The sentiment didn't stop him returning to the cozy room, where Germany lay sprawled on the floor, unconscious. "Aw, damn." The other avatar was six foot of solid muscle, which didn't make for easy carrying.

He knelt by the fallen avatar, checking for injuries. It looked as though Germany had slid out of his chair when he passed out. "Well, buddy, this ain't going to be a picnic." America sighed and slid his glasses into his shirt pocket before he bent to haul the other avatar to bed.

By the time he staggered into Germany's bedroom, America was more than a little worried. This wasn't simple exhaustion. People didn't shiver uncontrollably in their sleep, as a rule.

For all the older avatars thought him a naive, dumb kid, America wasn't stupid. Straightforward, sure, and maybe a bit naive, but he'd fought a war for his independence at an age when most avatars were still firmly colonies of an older empire, another one to keep that independence less than fifty years later, and a bitter civil war before he'd seen his nation's first century. Not to mention his states were more like countries themselves, complete with their own avatars - something he didn't talk about much since he wasn't too keen on being split between warring powers. He'd had enough of that in his civil war.

The combination meant America knew very well what good health in an avatar was like, and Germany wasn't it right now. Not when he was busy going into shock.

It wouldn't kill him - avatars were harder to kill than Texas roaches - but it would leave him and his people weakened at a time when they needed all their strength to rebuild.

"Not that the old men would agree," America muttered as he wrestled the unconscious avatar into his bed. "You're younger than me, dude." He unlaced Germany's black dress shoes and pulled them off. "Where did you get that stick up your ass?" Germany's socks followed, landing on the floor a moment later. "Need to get you warm and comfy." Pulling the covers back with Germany's dead weight on the bed was a challenge, although not as much as hauling the man up the stairs. This far from home, America couldn't call on his full strength. He needed to be on his nation's soil for that, or so angry he didn't care if he exhausted himself.

Germany didn't wake at all, or stop shivering, even when America tucked blankets around him to keep him warm.

"Dude, this is not cool." America sighed. If someone had told him a year ago he'd be seriously considering sharing Germany's bed - it wasn't even wide enough to call a bed, more like a camp cot - he'd have laughed in their face. England would laugh anyway if he knew, and France would think it was all for sex. "Fuck it. I still need to sleep and you need the warmth. Sorry."

#

Sunlight streamed through the window when America woke. Germany had slipped into something more like catatonia than real sleep, but at least he wasn't shivering any more.

"Aw, fuck." America sighed. "Looks like I get to play nursemaid."

He rolled out of the bed and stretched cramped muscles. A bed that narrow wasn't comfortable for two, no matter how close they were. Hard to believe Italy Veniciano slept there so much - although unlike France and England, America had no doubt that the only thing happening in that bed was sleep. He couldn't imagine Germany having sex, kinky porn collection or not.

He knew from his own citizens that a collection of weird porn didn't stop someone from being a virgin.

Although, Germany being Germany, there was a good chance his weird porn involved forms that had to be filed in triplicate. Without errors.

That thought sent America hurrying to the bathroom to scrub the mental image from his mind. He might be open-minded, even for avatars who tended to be a lot more relaxed about matters sexual than humans just because - being more or less immortal - if they hadn't seen everything they'd seen close enough to make no difference. Even America, despite his Puritan history or maybe because of it - man, those guys were _pervy_, just not in public - wasn't exactly a prude.

He'd just about got his wayward thoughts settled by the time he'd brushed his teeth, showered, dressed, and got a pot of coffee brewing in the kitchen. That - of course - was when the doorbell rang.

America sighed and trudged to the door, stifling a yawn. _This better not be some desk jockey with a stick up his ass. I get enough of that from Germany_.

The avatar of France stood waiting, a vision of male beauty with his perfect features, golden hair, and blue eyes. In typical fashion, he looked like he was being hugely inconvenienced _and_ like he was doing the occupants of the house a huge favor. Both at the same time, which was a trick.

As soon as he was inside and the door closed, France said, "Canada called."

America didn't particularly like calculating time zones in his head, but he could do it. He'd called his twin last night, catching him a little before he went to bed. There was no way he should have called anyone then, not when it would have been way late for them. England would have bitten his head off.

America had figured on calling him and France later this morning, late enough to give both avatars time to actually _be_ awake. "Jeez, I didn't mean him to wake you in the middle of the night."

"He did not." France's shrug was one of those typically Gallic gestures that conveyed both that the matter was not considered important and that the recipient should consider himself honored to receive such condescension.

Naturally, it irritated the Hell out of America.

"I had not retired when Canada called, so I simply packed and made my way here," France continued.

America winced. "You didn't have to do that, dude. I can hold things together for a day or so if he doesn't wake up."

One perfectly-formed eyebrow rose just enough to suggest America was being childish and stupid. "This is _Germany_ you are talking about. The man has to be half dead before he sleeps past six."

"I know that." America reminded himself that fighting with France wasn't going to do any good. "He's warm enough and his breathing and heartbeat are steady. The interim administration will call here if anything happens. I don't see any danger letting him sleep it off."

The eyebrow rose a little further. "Perhaps." Another of those small shrugs. "So, may I ask what caused you to call your brother?"

"Camp records," America said. "Coffee?"

France sneered faintly. "Thank you, no. And by camp records, I presume you do not mean your boy scouts."

Regardless of the other avatar's opinion, America was not facing this mess without coffee, and his style of coffee at that. "No, I don't. I'll meet you in the office, okay?" He didn't wait for France to agree.

#

To America's relief, Germany hadn't locked his safe.

France took the paper as though he expected it to bite, read quickly. His lips pressed tightly together and his eyes narrowed a little. "I see." He didn't sound pleased. "I could have told Prussia his little ruse would not last."

America blinked. Gulped down the coffee in his mouth. "_Little ruse_?" His voice cracked. "You knew?"

"Of course." Another of those so-Gallic shrugs. "He is the reason the Vichy ploy worked as long as it did."

It took America a moment to realize what France was saying. "When you led the resistance while pretending to be a loyal little puppet?"

France's smile held no warmth. It was as thin and cold as the avatar of a nation known for love could get - which was very. "Precisely."

America signed and ran his free hand through his hair. "So. What do we do now? England will throw a fit. Russia isn't going to let go of Prussia any time soon, not with his boss grabbing as much of Europe as he can." He didn't mention China - that nation and its avatar were embroiled in turmoils of their own and would have little interest in European matters.

Both the older avatar's eyebrows rose. "Astute of you." His tone suggested he was surprised by America's assessment.

America reminded himself that punching France wouldn't do any good. It would be satisfying, but the mess that would happen afterwards wasn't worth it. "I'll let you think it over, old man." He turned to leave the study. "You wouldn't listen to anything I said anyway."

#

Germany was still unconscious, and not sleeping. Only the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed indicated he still lived.

America swore under his breath. The longer Germany stayed unconscious, the more likely it was England would have to come here, and that would be... bad. While the avatar of England, the United Kingdom, and the fast-fading British Empire had mellowed a lot since his peak, he was still a force to be reckoned with, especially when he got in one of his moods.

It wasn't the sarcasm that bothered America, it was the disturbing sense that the older man would like nothing better to revert to his glory days and screw or kill - or both - anything that got in his way. He'd been far too good at that for anyone's comfort, and he'd won every major war he'd got himself into since that time.

Not that America would _ever_ tell England that, since he maintained - for morale and public opinion, of course - that both the wars where he'd kicked England's ass for him were major affairs. He knew better, he just wasn't ever going to say so. A man needed his ego boosters, after all.

He checked that Germany was still warm enough, then returned to the office, where France was digging through the piled records. "No change. You want something to eat?" _America_ sure did. He was starving.

The older avatar rose with unconscious grace. "I will cook. Your hamburgers for breakfast is a nauseating prospect."

America glared at him. There was nothing wrong with hamburgers. They were simple, you could eat them while you worked, and they had pretty much everything you needed: meat, green stuff, bread, cheese... Just because he didn't have time to spend hours cooking!

He was saved from having to start looking through the piled records by someone knocking on the door.

"I'll get it!" He'd rather France _stayed_ in the kitchen. While the man was cooking he wasn't making snide comments about America.

He changed his mind when he opened the door. England stood there in his full British Empire pissed off glory, green eyes hard as emeralds. Despite America having fought a war for independence from the older avatar, he found himself wanting to shrink into himself and beg for forgiveness or mercy. It annoyed the shit out of him. He'd taken his nation from a weak, untaught colony to one of the most powerful in the world, and he did _not_ need England glaring at him like he'd wet the bed. Again.

Of course England didn't wait to be invited in, no matter how much he insisted anyone at _his_ place wait even if - like all his colonies - they had the key. The man simply pushed past America without a word.

The other arrival rolled his eyes and sighed. "Sorry. He wouldn't listen when I tried to explain."

America nodded. His brother Canada might look so much like him that people mistook them - and it was always mistaking Canada for America, something neither twin enjoyed - but America knew the differences. Canada wore his hair a little longer, and his eyes were more the purple-blue of a sunset sky. He was modest and quietly-spoken, avoided conflict, and was overlooked by most avatars. Hell, even England forgot him half the time.

America tried not to forget his twin, but he suspected Canada did _something_ that made him just drop out of people's awareness. Whatever it was it was potent, America knew that much. "I figured he'd be here in a rage sooner or later." He shrugged. "Coffee? There's a pot in the kitchen, and France is making breakfast."

Canada smiled. "That sounds wonderful."

#

Waiting for France to finish cooking and for everyone except Germany to gather in the office did nothing for England's temper. To America it looked like his former mentor was about ready to snap, and America was the first to admit that he had no ability to read people. He got himself into so much trouble over that.

"So what's this nonsense about that teutonic wanker being _innocent_?" England demanded the moment everyone was in the room.

Canada winced from the venom in his voice, and even France looked startled.

America supposed that meant he'd need to deal with the problem - again. And people wondered why he joked about being a 'hero'. He _had_ to, the way he kept having to haul avatar asses out of the fires they'd made for themselves. "Not even Prussia would fake being a death camp inmate for three years," he said as calmly as he could. "It's not awesome."

England's eyes narrowed."You're not going _soft_ are you, America?"

"Enough." France's voice had an edge America had never heard from the older avatar. "You will hear what Canada and I have to say and you will view the evidence if we have to gag you and tie you to the chair."

America wasn't surprised there was more than a bit of eagerness in France's voice - everyone knew the self-styled nation of love was more than a bit on the kinky side. Most of the avatars also knew the relationship between England and France wasn't exactly one of hatred. More like hate-love, and even _he_ could see that.

England's eyes flicked from France to Canada, and when he saw the younger avatar's grim expression and folded arms, to America who did his best to match the cold glares the other two were giving off.

"Oh very well." England's glare didn't soften one whit.

America handed the older avatar the camp record, ready to jump if England tried to destroy it.

"I see." That could have frozen Hell several times over. "And this is all you have?"

France spoke before America could say anything about looking for trial records. "It is all _America_ has until we locate the records of Prussia's interrogation and trial." He frowned. "I do not expect those to make pleasant reading."

England tilted his head up slightly. "So confident they'll exist, France? After what they did to you, too."

France narrowed his eyes. "You remember the Little Songbird, no?"

Judging by the way England stiffened, he did. That particular code name belonged to one of the most effective spies the Allies had used, though America had never heard anything about who it was. He'd figured the spy had to be working with England, since MI5 were even closer about that kind of thing than his CIA.

Canada only nodded, looking sad.

England wasn't stupid: just a bit harder to stop than a freight train when he got on one of his tears. "You're not suggesting that _Prussia_..."

America carefully closed his mouth.

"No." France gave one of his expressive shrugs. "I am not _suggesting_ any such thing. I _know_, because he is the one who smuggled me from that prison and maintained the fiction that I was still present and supporting Vichy France."

England just gaped.

Canada nodded. "He got me out of Germany after I was captured."

France sneered. "You, however, were so set on destroying Prussia not a word would have deterred you." He waved a long-fingered hand in England's direction. "America had the decency to argue against dissolution despite believing him guilty. You, my old enemy, have no such excuses."

America swallowed. "You're expecting the Gestapo were involved in the trial and all, aren't you?" He wasn't really asking, and he didn't want to have to look at the silently raging England.

Both Canada and France nodded, but it was Canada who spoke. "Spying, treason... Those fuckers would have been salivating over the chance to get at him."

#

America clenched his teeth. His stomach twisted and he wanted nothing more than to flee the room and throw up. Instead, he gathered the fat pile of records he'd been looking through, and stood, slammed the papers onto the desk. With one hand, he grabbed England's collar and hauled the shorter man away from France and the argument that hadn't stopped in over _three fucking hours_.

"You git! What do you think-"

"Read." America indicated the top of the pile. "Now." He pushed England's head down so he couldn't turn his head away, and held him there until he stopped fighting.

Canada and France stared.

America just shrugged, waiting.

It took less than ten minutes. England paled, then started to tremble. Before another five minutes had passed, England fled the room. Everyone heard him being noisily sick.

America hoped he was puking in the kitchen.

France raised one eyebrow in a silent question.

"They gave him to Mengele," America said in a tight voice. "And he didn't try to escape because they told him they'd come for Germany if he did."

France's breath hissed through his teeth. "_Merde_."

"I think that counts as 'sufficient evidence'."

Canada gave him a sharp look. "Sarcasm? From you? It must be bad."

America just pointed to the piled records. He suspected he knew what had sent England running: Prussia's eyes. Or rather, what Mengele had _done_ with them. Reading that might explain why Prussia didn't suffer from the eye problems that normally plagued albinos, but it sure made for a queasy stomach.

France made a choked sound, and Canada patted him on the back. The younger avatar looked about as grim as America felt. "He didn't want us to know, Papa." Canada's voice was a long way from steady.

"We don't show this to Germany." America wasn't making a suggestion. "Not yet. He needs... time to accept this."

Both Canada and France started to look muley.

"Look, how would either of you be if you found out someone protected you from even _knowing_ your boss was murdering your people?"

Canada winced, and nodded.

The tension drained from France's posture. "You are perhaps less of a fool than you appear, America."

America didn't think the respect in the man's expression would last. It never did.

England returned, looking paler and a bit green. "That Mengele is one sick wanker."

It was as close to an apology as America would get, and he accepted it as such. "Yes. Not that there's a fucking _thing_ we can do about any of it." He let his frustration into his voice then, because there was no reason not to. "Fucking Russia isn't going to let go of any of the... territory he's gained. If he even lets anyone see Prussia in the first place. And Russia's fucking boss is no better the fucker we stopped here."

England's eyebrows - they were so bushy they were like giant caterpillars attached to his face - bristled when he said, "Despite your appalling language, that is a surprisingly astute summary of the situation."

America resisted the temptation to snap at the older avatar. It wasn't going to do any good, and besides, he was mostly irritable because he felt guilty for his part in the dissolution of Prussia. Hell, he didn't even know if Prussia's avatar had survived, and knowing he'd helped do that to someone who'd been innocent - innocent of the horrors of the Nazis, at any rate - made America's gut clench and his head ache. It went against everything he tried to stand for.

#

Germany couldn't tell if he dreamed or if the sunny field where he stood was some kind of hallucination or memory. It felt real.

He was young again, a small child with his big brother beside him, Prussia's pale hand resting lightly on his shoulder while he pointed out landmarks, and - being Prussia - explained the strategic significance of everything in sight. Germany basked in his brother's attention, felt safe for the first time he could remember.

He didn't know why, but he _trusted_ Prussia. Knew, deep down, that the older avatar would never hurt him.

The field darkened, chilled, and it was winter and Germany was older, taller than his brother now, a young man in his first war. It was nothing like the wars Prussia had retold with such excitement. Instead of the swords and men facing each other across a bloody field there was cold and mud while fire and death rained from the sky and the pain of his people dying around him. And guilt. He'd led his people to this, and it was destroying them. It didn't matter that he'd been forced by a choking network of mutual assistance treaties, didn't matter that he'd never wanted it. They were still his people.

His people.

Now he stood in one of the camps, staring at the starved, wrecked corpses that had been his people, the people he hadn't known were suffering and dying in his name. _His_ people. He'd failed them. God how he'd failed them. He'd _believed_ his boss when he'd said they'd build a wonderful new Germany, one that would last a thousand years and be the glory of the world. Instead, there was this... _perversion_. And it hurt, but not the way it should. He should be _covered_ in raw, weeping sores from this, and he wasn't. Only the war wounds.

Cold now, at the trial, numb with horror as the brother he loved, the brother he _trusted_ claimed he'd engineered it all, keeping Germany from realizing what was happening, taking the blame and _goading_ the Allies, taunting and irrepressible despite being so painfully thin his tailored uniform hung loosely from his shoulders, despite the dark patches Germany could see where blood or worse soaked through the fabric. Numb when the Allies sentenced him to death, to have his nation dissolved, cease to exist - because destroying an avatar's nation _would_ kill him, wouldn't it? - and his brother just _sneered_ and taunted them more.

Numb even when he was forced to watch while his brother convulsed and screamed and blood ran scarlet from his mouth and sprayed with each scream, while his brother weakened and collapsed into panting breaths, still in agony but no longer strong enough to scream. Numb when Russia lifted his brother, slung the smaller man over one massive shoulder like he was a sack of potatoes, numb when Russia walked away, vanishing into that _other_ realm avatars could use to travel quickly from place to place, taking what remained of Prussia with him.

Numb, and lost.

Lost.

Germany couldn't remember not being aware of Prussia's presence, ever. His big brother was always there, a comforting constant even when he was physically elsewhere, fighting some war or other, even when the Nazis - Germany couldn't bring himself to think of them as part of him, even though they were, they were him as much as their victims were, and he suffered when they died, too - had sent him to one of their filthy camps... Prussia was still _there_, a kind of parallel heartbeat representing the land they shared, which was everything within Germany's borders, really.

Germany refused to see his brother demoted to a mere state. Instead, back when Prussia became part of the kingdom, he'd drawn up a shared power agreement, making the two of them Germany. Prussia called him a naive fool, but signed anyway. They hadn't told their boss. Let Germany be the face of the land and Prussia his hidden trump. Only since none of their bosses knew, it wasn't enough to save Prussia, because he couldn't feel his brother any more, and he was alone, empty.

The wind whispered around him, mocking him with its hissing laughter so like Prussia's snickering. Only Prussia had never mocked him, not really. Only teased him, usually about how he was too serious and he needed to have fun. Germany could hear the difference between teasing and mockery, even though others couldn't. His eyes stung and his chest ached. He wanted his brother back, more than he could say.

_In time, brother_, the wind whispered.

Germany's head jerked up, and he spun to face the wind in the cold empty space of his dreams. _Prussia_? He could hardly form the thought.

More of that hissing laughter. _I'll be back in good time, little brother_. The wind wrapped around Germany, comforting now. _For now, I need to play nice with Russia and his boss, but that won't last forever_.

_They know what you did_. That thought was a little easier to voice even though no sound left his throat. _I found your admission record. America will have told the others_. He didn't ask why: he didn't have to. Prussia had always protected his little brother, no matter the cost.

Though wind couldn't embrace him, to Germany it seemed he was wrapped in his brother's arms again, warm and protected. _Ksh... It lasted long enough. Now I can laugh at their guilt when they see me again - won't that be awesome, brother_?

Germany couldn't see anything awesome about anything, not now, but maybe with the softening of time... Maybe.

_Tch. So serious, little brother_. Almost, Germany could see his brother's sharp grin, see the red eyes dancing with mirth. _We'll recover. Our people will be strong again, and awesome, too_.

_Not another war_!

Softer now, mournful. _No wars_, Prussia agreed. _These modern wars, they're too destructive, too impersonal. No, this will be a different battle, one of hearts and souls and minds. You'll be the face of it, showing everyone that Germany can be peaceful and _good_, and I'll be in the shadows, driving the fucking commies out of their twisted little minds until their whole mess falls apart and their people can just _be_ again_.

It was so like Prussia, that, skipping over serious problems like they were games and still reaching to the heart of the matter with his sharp observations. _Be careful, brother_.

_Always, brother_. The wind wrapped tightly around Germany, a quick embrace. _I'll miss you. I'll even miss that stick up your arse_. And with hissing laugh that Prussia used to taunt and put people mentally off-balance, the wind faded, leaving Germany alone again.

Except now, ever so faintly, he could feel his brother's presence again.


	2. Awakening

The avatar of Prussia was no stranger to pain. He'd won and lost so many wars he'd stopped keeping count long ago, and he'd taken so many wounds in battle it was little short of a miracle that he _wasn't_ all scar tissue. He'd suffered torture at the hands of his own people many times, from when they'd believed him a demon with his unnaturally pale skin and white hair and red eyes, from idiot bosses trying to bend him to their will, from the sick 'experiments' of that twisted fuck of a so-called doctor... Oh, Prussia knew pain well enough it was almost an old friend.

Having his nation dissolved eclipsed everything he'd suffered before. All of it. All at once. If he'd had to describe it, he'd have said it was like having his soul scraped out of his body with red hot rasps - and he knew what red hot rasps felt like against skin even though those scars had faded so long ago he rarely remembered they'd ever existed.

He didn't bother to try to suppress his screams. The small part of him that nothing could touch, that watched _everything_, cold and calculating, that part took a certain grim amusement in the way his screams rang off the metal walls, the way the Allies flinched from the sound. They wanted him to suffer, they'd get an earful of it. They could have the blood, too, when his throat started to go and he sprayed blood with every hoarse scream. Part of him hoped he could spatter them with it, but mostly all he wanted was for the agony to _stop_.

Not that he could do anything except ride the pain, losing awareness of everything except suffering, until there was no more screaming, only harsh, panting whimpers, until everything faded and jumbled together.

Prussia wished he could pass out. Oblivion looked _good_ about now.

That mercy was denied him: instead the hazy world of pain stretched on, and on. Dying, too, didn't seem to be an option. Well, he'd always said he couldn't be killed, but he could have done without proving it like this.

The world tilted, and he was slung over someone's shoulder like a sack, head spinning with new pain and unable to do more that twitch and breathe. And breathe. A shift, and Prussia knew he was being taken to that other realm where he and his kind were much closer to each other and where an avatar could die if he failed to defend himself from the horrors that lived in the collective subconscious of humankind.

He heard a wet thump, metal striking flesh and bone, crushing it, heard the unearthly scream of the nameless creature. More wet crushing sounds, more screams, then the world of humans was back and Prussia shivered with cold that was more than merely physical.

He welcomed the cold: cold numbed pain. When he was dropped to a cold earth floor - ground? It didn't matter - the cold rose from it, numbing everything, and finally, _finally_, he could escape for a while into the emptiness of unconsciousness.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to wake or not.

#

Prussia drifted. Sometimes he almost heard voices around him, almost felt movement, but it never quite penetrated the chill that held him, never reached more than a vague sense that there might be others tending his starved, battered body.

He couldn't bring himself to care. Memories flickered past his awareness, some bare hints of past actions, some deeper. How long they held him he couldn't have said. There was no time in the place where Prussia's mind and soul walked. Just things happening after other things.

Slowly, the memories stopped rolling and he was in a place he knew well: a forest glade that had no physical existence any more but it was where he was born, who he was. This place went all the way back to before the Teutonic Knights, to Old Prussia, when he'd been a mere infant, toddling about with a sword too big for him clutched in both hands, and using it to defend his people even though they tried to kill him because he was a demon, a monster.

The Teutonic Knights had found him here, long ago. They'd laughed, but his desperate fight appealed to their honor, and when he could touch their crosses and recite - awkwardly, with a horrible accent - their Latin prayers, they decided he must be theirs, so he'd become their avatar as well and done his best to merge his two peoples peacefully.

He smiled a little at the thought. Some of his bosses back then had been right bastards, but most had been decent men, if hard. He didn't mind the hardness: it was something he understood. Soft things died. Only the strong survived. The strong and the smart. Prussia fought to be both, never knowing what he was, only that he was different because he didn't get any older while people aged and died, because of his unnatural paleness, his red eyes. The whole time he was the Teutonic Knights, his body never grew to more than about the size of a ten year old - but by God he was the toughest ten year old there was.

Meeting Hungary for the first time, when he was sent to defend her land... God what a fuckup that was. She'd thought she was a boy, and he - who'd never met anyone like him before - how was he to know different? The thought that he was supposed to be a girl and his penis would drop off when he got old enough terrified him for years. Not that he ever said anything: he'd never needed to learn that lesson. You never told anyone your weaknesses. Ever. They'd use it against you. There were no friends in this world, only enemies and rivals. You could ally with your rivals for a while but they'd turn on you in the end. Everyone did. Always.

How many peoples had he been? Old Prussia, the Teutonic Knights, Prussia in all her forms as Duchy, Kingdom, Republic and State... Germany, too. That link was still there, still strong with millions of hearts beating, millions of lives and dreams. Hurting, but strong. Germany would recover and if they didn't land any more idiot prick bosses, the fatherland just might become the great nation he'd dreamed of. The Knights was still there, too, weak and faded, but present. Odd. He'd thought the order long gone. Old Prussia was gone, faded past discernment, and where Prussia should be was a raw, gaping void.

The new link, though, that one burned fiercely with the light of determination. _Never forget, never again_. He could feel them, his new peoples, the gypsies collecting with their kin in other parts of Europe, the Jews streaming to more welcoming shores, many heading to the deserts of the Middle East, their ancestral homeland. Others, too, scattered across Russia, the Soviet camps where men and women were held for trivial reasons... Prussia wasn't sure how he'd come to claim those as his own. Possibly the fierce thirst for justice, an outgrowth of what he'd been as the Kingdom of Prussia.

Justice, not just rules or laws. Prussia knew from long experience that rules and laws were everywhere but justice... that was a rare thing. Justice for the people his boss had turned on... for _everyone_ a boss had turned on. Because by then, the Austrian fucker hadn't _been_ his boss: he'd been that rarest of creatures, an avatar bound solely by the needs of his people.

It was one of the benefits of being a rebellious son of a bitch, Prussia mused. He'd learned something he doubted anyone else knew: an avatar couldn't be controlled by a boss who'd turned on his own people. It was his people that kept him at that hell-hole in Auschwitz when he could have simply stepped into the other realm and taken himself anywhere he wished. His people's need and his brother's need.

A flicker of regret: he shouldn't have protected his brother so much. Germany was too naive, too easily deceived. Too obedient, even for a proper soldier. God, the poor kid had _believed_ that Austrian fucker's line of a new, glorious Germany and never once realized what it would cost.

And Prussia protected him, taking the suffering for him, taking it all - while smuggling Jews and homosexuals and gypsies and anyone else the Nazi fuckers set their sights on out of the country. Hell, there'd been times when he'd had dozens of them hidden in the basement of their Berlin home, while Germany met with Italy and Japan and sometimes with the bosses as well. That amused Prussia, working against the Austrian prick that way. He'd helped with all the attempts to kill the little shit, too, until he'd been found out and sent to that sick fuck Mengele.

And protected Germany again, when the Allies wanted their vengeance for the whole sordid mess, claiming he'd masterminded the whole thing and goaded and taunted them into agreeing. Well, France and Canada hadn't been fooled: they remembered him smuggling them to safety. But with America, England, Russia and China all wanting blood, he'd made damn sure they got _his_ blood and not Germany's. Made sure it was him that got bent over for the traditional victory gang-bang, not Germany.

He couldn't stop them making his brother watch, but he could make it look like he didn't care, like he was still taunting them, still defiant. Never show weakness. Always show them what you _want_ them to see. He wanted them to see Prussia the vicious bastard, Prussia the warmonger. Prussia who'd keep spitting defiance even as he was ground into the dust. Prussia who'd rise again and kick all of them back to their filthy dens and seize their vital regions for good measure.

Well, that part wasn't going to happen, not as Prussia.

_Pity_, he thought with a sigh. _I kind of liked that name_.

There was another link, this one the oldest of all of them, and the most diffuse. Not the weakest though. This link was more primal, going back to Prussia's first memories, cutting his teeth on the hilt of the sword that was too big for his tiny hands. It was why, if he concentrated, he knew every place in the world where armies clashed. Knew, too, where there would be battle soon, though he couldn't have said precisely when it would erupt. Only that _this_ place was ready to explode, where _that_ would remain at peace for a while longer. Why there was a part of him that never, ever relaxed, never trusted. Why they'd called him an army with a country.

That link had the shortest name of all, a name not even Prussia's complex internal defenses and the front of bravado they generated dared claim.

_War_.

#

He dreamed he spoke to Germany, whispering to him in the space between dreams, assuring his brother that all would be well, that he would return when the time came, consoling and encouraging and teasing gently even as Germany told him the Allies knew he'd lied, knew he'd taken their vengeance to protect his brother.

Prussia looked forward to meeting them, grinning at them and watching them try to pretend they weren't squirming with guilt. It wasn't the vengeance he'd like to take, but it would do for now. Besides, better he satisfied their need for blood and revenge than his brother. The victors' gang-bang would have destroyed Germany, where Prussia had been on the wrong side as many times as he'd been on top. He wasn't fool enough to claim it didn't hurt, but he'd grown accustomed to it, calloused.

Dreams faded, new dreams came, darkness, cold, warmth, all of it a tangle half-remembered, then sensation - actual physical sensation, not the dream-world analog of it - returned slowly, trickling back to him. His nose was cold, the air he breathed chilly, but he was warm, wrapped in warmth on a soft surface. After a while the word 'bed' drifted to his half-awake mind. A soft crackling sound... that was a fireplace. Scent of wood smoke. Sour taste in his mouth, the taste of old blood and too long without nourishment.

His eyes drifted open.

He lay in a room that had once been grand, the paint faded and patches on the walls marking where paintings and other decorations had hung for so long the walls had changed around them. The remains of an ornate ceiling, the precious metals long stripped from the ornamentation leaving the underlying tin to tarnish. Large windows to one side, heavy curtains of faded velvet open to a bleak sky and snow falling in flurries and large wet clumps.

Odd. He'd half expected to wake chained in a prison.

He sighed softly. He could feel the steady beat of his people's hearts, the German strongest but the others still there, and his brother's presence with him too. A faint stickiness, the sense of unhealed wounds whose dressings could hold no more seepage.

It could be worse. His bladder was as empty as his stomach. Just as well, since he knew he lacked the strength to leave the bed. Heavy lassitude wrapped his body though he was quite alert. He wondered how long he'd been unconscious before discarding the thought. He'd find out soon enough, since he'd clearly been cared for.

Footsteps, the sound of heavy boots on wooden floors, muffled by the closed door but coming closer. The doorknob turning - another surprise: Prussia had expected the door to be locked. He wasn't - technically anyway - a willing guest.

He turned his head, and blinked at the blond man who towered over him. Sandy-blond hair, the color of steppe grass in summer. Eyes the purple-blue of the eastern sky at sunset. Small smile that didn't reach those eyes, a smile that should have been innocent but wasn't. And of course, the ever-present icy chill of winter. The avatar of Russia carried that aura with him wherever he went, no matter the actual climate, just as that little smile of his was usually there whether he held a priceless treasure or was beating something - or someone - to a pulp with the length of pipe he'd adopted as his personal weapon.

The smile broadened now, and actually touched his eyes. "Ah. It is good to see you awake at last, comrade."

Prussia smiled a little, not one of his trademark smirks, just a faint smile. "I have to admit, I'm waking in better circumstances than I expected, all things considered. Thank you for that, comrade. May I ask how long I was out?"

Russia seemed a little bewildered by that - likely he'd expected hostility.

Prussia was quite happy to keep the bigger avatar off-balance and wondering at his motives.

"I... it has been five years. For a long time we did not know if you would return to us at all, yes."

_Oh. Fuck. No wonder I'm weak as a day old kitten_. For all his long and bloody history, he'd never been so badly injured he'd gone into hibernation for more than a month or two. Spending five _years_ unconscious and vulnerable... He had to suppress the desire to shiver. "I see." He couldn't stop himself from sounding shocked. "Remind me not to get my country dissolved again, would you? In retrospect, that wasn't the most awesome thing I've ever done." He did manage to get a decent amount of dryness into the latter comment.

Russia actually laughed. Not his creepy chuckle that sent weaker avatars – which was just about everyone - fleeing, but real laughter. "Ah, Prussia." He wiped his eyes with the back of a gloved hand. "Only you would say such a thing."

Prussia forced a grin. "Only I would be crazy enough to get my country dissolved," he pointed out. "Nobody would _dare_ do that to you even if they got past General Winter. Me, well, I'm safe to hate." He kept his tone light, not letting anything that could hint of bitterness into his voice. Never show weakness, ever.

"I disagree, comrade." Russia's expression settled back to his usual unnerving half-smile. "_You_ would dare."

"Me and what army, comrade?" Prussia asked with a dry twist of a grin. "Your boss is going to be keeping me on a tight leash now I'm back, and it's not going to include an army that can go against you. And that's if he's generous and lets me represent the part of Germany he's holding." Again, he was careful to keep his words relaxed, matter-of-fact. He also chose not to mention that he still held that part of Germany.

This time Russia's laughter was his well-known chuckle that sounded like thunder rolling in the distance. "Oh, you need not worry about that. You are now the _Deutsche Demokratische Republik_. Would you rather be known as DDR or East?"

Prussia pretended to consider that for a while before he said "East works." He and his brother had been 'East' and 'West' for years already, just between the two of them, and he wasn't going to take that other appalling excuse for a name. It was as bad as the USSR - which nobody used except formally anyway. They went for either 'Soviet' or 'Russia'.

Before the bigger avatar could start to frown, he gave the man his best smile - the full force of the charm and appeal he could exert if he wanted. "Thank you, comrade, and do thank Comrade Stalin for me, if you would be so kind."

Russia actually _blushed_. Now that was worth knowing. He'd be stuck dealing with fucking Soviets until the bastards collapsed from their own uselessness, so he'd make their lives a misery while he let them think he was _on their side_. It was still war, but a war fought with words and gestures and smiles. A war, in short, where the skills of the royal court were more appropriate than those of the battlefield.

"Ah, Pr... East, I will do that, of course." He fiddled with the scarf he always wore. "Why did you lie in the trial?"

Prussia couldn't hear anything but innocent curiosity in the question. He raised an eyebrow. "Been going through the Nazi fucker's records?"

"What?" Russia blinked and retreated a step. "No! It is only... we did treat your wounds, and... You talked sometimes, while you... slept."

_Ah, yes_. When a boss turned on his people, the avatars got horrible weeping sores on their backs. Between those, the identification number on his arm, and his delirious mutterings, he would have let the whole thing out. "Sorry, comrade. I didn't mean to accuse. The truth is, I've got so used to those I almost forget them."

Russia blinked again, relaxing fractionally. "Why did you take the blame?" He sounded almost plaintive. "Why did you goad us to blame you?"

"Comrade, really," Prussia said in a gentle tone. "Would you not do the same to spare your sisters?"

The larger man's eyebrows went up. "If they were innocent, of course."

Prussia nodded. "Germany is. He didn't know there was anything more than a perfectly normal war going on."

"And you kept that knowledge from him." Russia wasn't accusing, just stating facts.

Another nod. "It would have destroyed him. You'd do the same for Ukraine, yes?"

A pause, then Russia nodded. "Yes." He fiddled with his scarf some more before he said, "You seem... different."

Prussia lacked the strength to shrug. "Hardly surprising, I suppose," he said in an indifferent tone. "Having one's nation dissolved and spending five years in hibernation will do that." If it kept Russia off-balance, Prussia had no objections. He had no allies here, and no strength. He'd be living on his wits for a while.

Quite the challenge – he liked that notion. Rising again from impossible odds to kick the arses of the bastards who'd tried to destroy him, making the whole damn world watch him to try to guess who he'd come after next... he lived for this.

Not so much as a hint of his thoughts touched his face. "So, comrade Russia, what now?" he asked. "I have to admit I hope it's going to involve a change of dressings and food – not necessarily in that order, either."

#

To Prussia's surprise, Russia helped him – actually carried him – from his bed to a cavernous bathroom that looked as though it was straight out of the last century and sat him on a plain wooden chair to peel off the soaked, sticky bandages while a parade of avatars Prussia didn't recognize – he suspected from their dark hair and vaguely Mongolian features they were the 'stans - hauled buckets of steaming water into the room to tip into the tub.

Russia didn't introduce them, and the crusted blood and ooze coming loose from his skin hurt enough he didn't feel like asking.

The tub had a drain, at least, but the faucet clearly wasn't any use, and the idea of running _hot_ water was probably nothing more than a dream. Ah, well. It would still get him clean.

The only reason he didn't doze off was that despite Russia's – remarkable, really – gentleness, getting cleaned up _hurt_. It couldn't be helped: while most of the war wounds were pretty near healed, his back wasn't going to get any better for a long time. He knew from experience that those wounds wouldn't start to heal until there were no survivors left to remember the betrayal that caused them, and the scars they left would last a lot longer. The raw ridged line through his heart where Berlin was divided between Russia, America, France, and England would heal before the weeping sores from the camps did, as would the ugly scar on his right hip marking where Dresden had burned.

Getting bandaged again afterwards took so long he did doze, and had to be nudged awake for Russia to feed him.

Under the circumstances complaining about broth being for babies and invalids seemed a bit silly. Not that he wouldn't have done it, if he'd seen an advantage to it, but for now there was no reason to play the fool. He was vulnerable enough without adding to it, and if he worked this right he could have Russia convinced the dissolution had changed him permanently.

Russia's careful touch – not what he'd expected from a man known for casual brutality – and concerned expression suggested Prussia was well on the way to that goal already. Not that this meant Prussia was safe here: far from it. The avatar of Russia had lost his mind years ago, and only rarely showed signs of anything resembling sanity.

In some ways that was a good thing: Russian bosses who _didn't_ abuse their people were a rarity to say the least. The fucking Soviets were just the latest in a long line of power hungry bastards who saw the millions of Russians as simply bodies to throw at enemies to build their own power. What use was strategy when you could throw millions of peasants armed with fucking knives into the teeth of a modern army and wait for the sheer number of bodies to overwhelm the other side?

Hell, Prussia wouldn't ask a soldier to face that. That kind of slaughter broke good men, destroyed their will to protect their own people. He wouldn't call any man a coward because he couldn't bring himself to shoot at a wall of innocent peasants herded into place by fucking tanks.

Knowing Russia – and remembering his own rashness there many years ago now – Prussia would prefer to leave that field to others. General Winter could keep the fools who challenged his lands of endless winter: Prussia would find other ways.

Besides, he rather pitied the larger avatar, though he never let that get in the way of extremely cautious respect. Russia could snap him in two if he wanted, especially now, and Russia's madness included bouts of rage that usually left a trail of blood. And that was before considering that the big man genuinely forgot his own strength half the time.

It was going to be interesting, living in Russia's house.

#

Almost a week passed before Prussia recovered enough to make his way – slowly, and stopping to rest several times – to the dining room of the Russian mansion. Once he got there, he sank down onto one of the chairs and let his head drop forward, closed his eyes.

He was healing well, but he tired so quickly it was maddening. Having to pretend to be a happily brainwashed little Soviet client-state didn't help, although at least he was getting enough information about what he was supposed to be to play the part well enough.

He could hear soft conversation, too soft to make out the words, and smell food, so he'd made it down here in good time. Another week and he'd be well enough to take part in what seemed to be a never-ending list of chores Russia gave his many dependents.

That would help keep boredom at bay, too.

Boredom, possibly the surest breaker of prisoners, stalked him constantly. With no reading materials beyond those Russia supplied, and no strength to _do_ anything, he had little beyond his own mind for entertainment, and that was definitely not awesome. Prussia was used to constantly shifting streams of information, to alliances that became wars in the space of a few hours – sometimes less. The chill sameness of Russia's house was its own form of Hell.

If not for the links to his peoples, he would be in real danger of madness. As it was he could lose himself in those links, sifting through the fast-flowing haze of thoughts and dreams and needs to learn what he wanted to know. Russia would be... displeased if he knew just how broadly his guest's peoples were spread, so Prussia made sure the larger avatar had no notion of what he could do, made sure not to tap the full strength of his peoples, not to heal too quickly.

It had occurred to him that no other avatar could have survived dissolution. The primary link was the strongest, after all, and when the suffering became too much, a hibernation could become a permanent thing, the avatar never waking, just fading. He'd watched Holy Rome die that way, his body too weak to survive the collapse of his fragile empire.

To see that same soul in Germany was a blessing Prussia had never expected. It was why he'd done so much for his brother: Germany was his second chance, his God-given opportunity to atone for all the things he'd failed to do for Holy Rome. But Germany was still young, his country less than a hundred years old. He hadn't had the time to build the layers of links to peoples and lands that all the older avatars had.

Hell, that bloody pervert _France_ could likely still connect to everything the little Corsican had conquered – everything except what had been Prussia, of course. He might have lost the battle and had to play French territory for a time, but once the French had been sent home with their tails between their legs, Prussia had made damn sure the land would never link to France again.

He'd have to teach Germany that one, so he didn't have the Allies constantly needling him. After he'd brought down the Soviets.

It was a long war, all right, one that he couldn't fight openly.

Footsteps, heavy and solid, bringing the aura of the bitterest winters. The footsteps stopped, then approached rather more quickly. "East! You know you aren't strong enough for this." Russia's voice, of course, but the open worry in it was something he hadn't expected.

He raised his head and turned to the larger avatar. "I needed to know if I could make it," he said in a mild tone. "Now that I know I can, I should be fine." And smiled. "I'm sorry I worried you, Russia."

Russia's laid one hand on his head, gently, ruffling his hair in a gesture that did all the right things to be affectionate and didn't quite succeed. "You are such a stubborn little snow-bunny, East."

He locked down the surge of irritation at the patronizing tone, and gave the bigger man the sweetest smile he could manage. "So you keep telling me, comrade." It was a little too soon to start with the 'dear comrade' line, and besides, he'd need to be fit enough to dodge Belarus once he started that game.

The meal wasn't bad: very Russian, of course, but there was plenty of food and drink. Prussia stuck to water, knowing he wasn't strong enough to even think about vodka yet, and besides, getting drunk would be a bad idea. He didn't look forward to abstinence, but you made sacrifices for war and this was one of them.

He pretended to ignore the curious – and in more than a few cases borderline hostile – scrutiny he got from Russia's many territories. The 'stans – Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, and Turkmenistan – studied him with open curiosity. Of course they, like the cluster of Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Armenia from between the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea, had never had any interaction with Prussia so there wasn't any old history to color their views of him.

The same could not be said for the rest of Russia's house guests. The three Baltics – Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia – seemed to hover between fear and loathing. Russia's sisters showed no expression at all – which in Belarus's case was a good thing – and the client states were uniformly hostile.

Not that he blamed them. His relationships with other nations had never been particularly friendly.

It was a quiet meal: no conversation, no talking apart from quiet requests to pass this or that condiment. He was aware of Hungary watching him closely, looking somewhere between bewildered and hurt. As though she'd expected the Prussia she'd known for so many years to show himself.

That wasn't happening. It _couldn't_ happen. All of his growing plans depended on the old Prussia being dead. Gone. They depended on this new creature, this sickeningly polite – and above all else, loyal _communist_ – 'East' being all there was. Nobody would swallow what he planned otherwise.

Even though the tears shimmering in Hungary's eyes left him feeling lower than dirt, Prussia didn't let a hint of his old self show. It wasn't even that hard: very few people had ever seen him raw and open and without some kind of defense.

After the meal, Russia gave formal introductions, treating Prussia like a young child. In a sense, he was, being bound to a nation less than five years old. Of course, that link overlaid what he was as Germany, although nobody but he and his brother knew that. Nor would they, yet.

Prussia played up the whole 'new nation' thing, acting confused when Lithuania glared at him, and even pretending not to recognize danger when Hungary stalked towards him with her frying pan in her hand despite every instinct screaming at him to flee. She could kill with that frying pan, then calmly clean it off and make sausage.

She hesitated when he didn't flinch, when he just watched her approach with – apparently – innocent curiosity. "You don't remember?" Her voice wasn't steady.

He tilted his head a little. "I'm sorry, comrade Hungary. I don't understand."

Her grip on the frying pan trembled. "Don't you even remember being Prussia?"

He pretended to consider that. "I do remember," he said softly. "But it's distant." That was a lie, of course. "I think because Prussia is gone." He needed all his self-control to say that calmly. The wound inside where Prussia had been would never heal, would hurt for as long as he existed. There would be revenge for that in time, when he'd regained his strength and his freedom, but for now, he'd play the broken-winged bird, the obedient little territory.

Her breath hissed through her teeth, and that damned frying pan would have knocked him flying if Russia hadn't caught her wrist. "No!" Hungary shuddered. "You're still there, somewhere, you _have_ to be! You can't be gone, Prussia, you can't!" Tears formed in her eyes, ran down her cheeks. "You can't just be gone."

Russia released her, and she sank to her knees, sobbing. "You can't be gone... I love... I loved you."

And he'd thought not flinching from the frying pan was hard. Keeping a blank, somewhat bewildered expression while Hungary cried for who he'd been was almost like being dissolved again. And he couldn't tell her anything. Couldn't even hint.

_Well, fuck, Prussia. This is another fine mess you've made for yourself._

###


	3. Introducing East

America straightened a bit and squared his shoulders. This was one World Council meeting he really wanted to be at, ever since Russia had announced all the nations in his newly-formed Warsaw Pact would be there. Which included the reclusive East Germany.

All the others were more or less known quantities. Poland, Hungary... Hell, even Romania attended pretty regularly and his boss was a total nutcase. But until now, East Germany had sent a politely worded apology for his absence, delivered by Russia.

America wasn't sure what to expect, really. Part of him hoped that East Germany would prove to be another incarnation of Prussia, just so he wouldn't feel so bad about having effectively sentenced an innocent man – well, technically anyway – to death. On the other hand a baby avatar would be really cute, and there hadn't been any of those in a long while.

The usual pre-meeting informalities were in full swing: France and England exchanging glares over something, Germany looking as though he had a bad headache coming on, the Asians arguing amongst themselves... No outright fights yet, and no property damage. Good. That meant things hadn't warmed up properly.

America grinned, but before he could declare his – heroic, of course – presence, the icy chill of winter froze the words in his throat, and Russia and the Warsaw Pact avatars arrived in a tight group, totally stealing his line. Damn.

They sat in a group, Russia in the middle as always, but between him and Ukraine was what looked to America like an impossibly subdued Prussia. Impossibly subdued, in that he didn't raise his head, and he leaned ever so slightly towards Russia as though he regarded the bigger avatar as his protector. Even more odd, Belarus didn't seem to mind this at all, and she _adored_ her 'big brother'.

The man who had to be the mysterious East Germany didn't look up while the others took their seats. If he noticed Germany's stare he didn't show any sign of it, just kept his head down and his pale hands curled around his steaming coffee mug. He wore military uniform, like all the male Eastern bloc avatars, his a dark olive. His pale skin and white hair looked odd, stark.

Whispers ran through the room, a mix of disbelief and shock. Austria stared at Hungary who gave a quick shake of her head, blinked rapidly. Austria swallowed and closed his eyes, sank into his seat beside a pale-faced Switzerland.

Germany remained standing while everyone else took their seats, then once they were all in place – and for once, quiet – he said, "Why don't you introduce the new arrival, Russia?" His voice was carefully even, but America could hear the faint unsteadiness, the tension.

Russia's creepy smile got creepier, which shouldn't have been allowed. "Yes, of course." He murmured something to the white-haired avatar, who stood with him, but didn't lift his head. "This is my good friend, the _Deutsche Demokratische Republik_," he said, pronouncing the German effortlessly. "Say hello to your new friends, East."

Germany stiffened.

'East' looked up.

America swallowed. This was Prussia... but it wasn't. The face was the same, the red eyes... but the man's body language was all wrong. There was none of Prussia's posturing, none of the loudness. This man was timid, and shot a quick sideways look Russia's way before he said in a soft, deferential tone, "Good day, comrades."

America's stomach clenched, and he counted under his breath. It wouldn't be long.

He got to three before Germany roared, "_What have you done to my brother_?"

#

The avatar of England, Great Britain, and the United Kingdom straightened shakily and wiped his mouth. His stomach still threatened further revolt – and this was one revolt that couldn't be put down easily – but at least there wasn't anything left in it to be expelled.

He wasn't normally prone to this kind of thing, but everything about Russia's new 'pet' screamed wrong to his senses, so wrong it made his stomach twist into knots. The problem was... the man _was_ Prussia. Or rather, he was what was left of Prussia. Which didn't appear to be much.

The way he'd watched Germany lose control and scream at Russia, looking nothing more than a bit bewildered as if he truly didn't know why West Germany would be... it really wasn't exaggeration to say he was frothing at the mouth. And that was _before_ Italy started crying.

America had – uncharacteristically – been the voice of reason, calling a short break before fixing Russia with a vicious glare and a curt order. One which – just as unusually – Russia had acceded to.

England swallowed and rinsed his mouth with water. He wasn't sure if he could face that... not-Prussia without retching. There was so much wrong there it hurt him to look at the man.

Not that he had a choice. Stiff upper lip and all that... he'd have to be the bloody British Empire to the best of his ability if he wanted to get through the rest of the day without running off to be sick every few minutes, and he was supposed to have left that behind and settled into the genteel retirement of an avatar whose nation was in decline.

It could be worse, he reminded himself as he left the bathroom. Things weren't bad enough to need his old pirate ways. Heaven forbid it come to that – he'd been _wild_. Utterly undisciplined.

Effective, though. He couldn't claim otherwise, not when he'd gained most of his best colonies in that era. Pity America had to go and rebel...

He cut the thought off _hard._ The last thing he needed was to go getting himself all maudlin over what could have been, especially when he had to go back to the meeting and face that abomination Russia called East.

Things were no better in the conference room. 'East' sitting beside Russia, looking confused, Belarus of all people patting his arm and offering to help 'Big Brother' protect him, Russia with his evil little smile and his cold, cold eyes...

England silently told his stomach to _shut up, damn it_, and reminded himself that he still had what it took to be the British Empire who didn't worry about what anyone else thought of him because he was that powerful and everyone looked to him for direction even if it was only so they could run like hell the other way.

Judging by the wary looks from Hong Kong and India the act was working. Now if only that wanker America didn't ruin it. "Now that everyone has had time to recover their composure, I believe you and 'East' were going to explain a few things, Russia." He didn't ask: it was a silky demand with steel underneath, one that said there would be blood if he didn't get what he wanted, and the blood would be Russia's.

Russia blinked. Smiled. "Of course, comrade."

America made to speak, was shushed by France and Canada – since when had _America_ listened to France?

"East woke three years ago," Russia said simply. "He's been like this since he woke."

Hungary made a choked sound, but she nodded. Poland and Lithuania moved to comfort her: she waved them away.

"Really?" England let his voice drip skepticism.

'East' looked up, a faintly wounded expression on his face. "What reason would anyone have to lie?" he asked. "Russia and his house guests cared for me while I spent five years hibernating. They've helped me since I woke up."

Five years. England was sure he paled. Five bloody _years_! He'd never heard of an avatar surviving that long in the odd state they called hibernation.

"What..." Germany swallowed. "What do you remember, brother?"

England couldn't read the look 'East' gave Germany – which was odd, because he could read _Prussia_ just fine thank you.

"I remember being Prussia." That was soft, and too calm. Too emotionless. "It hurts to remember... That part of me was torn out. It doesn't heal." A smile, gentle and wistful. "Perhaps in time I'll return to what I remember being." A quick shrug. "I don't know everything I lost, you see."

If it had been Prussia talking, England would have been certain the man was trying to make him feel guilty and would have resisted any such notion. Instead, the simple statements cut deeper than any blade. This 'East' seemed utterly guileless, a freaking innocent.

An innocent in bloody Russia's control, who'd believe whatever lies Russia told him, England reminded himself. "Yes, I believe I do see." He turned a fierce British Empire glare on Russia. "How awfully convenient for you, Russia. You've got yourself a nice, docile client state you didn't even have to break."

All three Baltics paled. They sat frozen, as though any movement could bring something horrible.

Between an angry British Empire and a Russia whose mood was rapidly darkening, something horrible was definitely in the air.

Russia raised an eyebrow, and the icy chill he carried with him seemed to deepen and crackle in the air. "As I recall, _I_ was not the one in favor of what you describe as 'breaking'."

Which was, unfortunately, true. Russia had wanted the eastern lands for himself with Prussia's military expertise and fierce love of war to serve him. Dissolving the state, wiping it off the map, denied the Soviet Union its true desire will still granting control over the land and people.

England was no longer so sure it was the right decision. Not with 'East' watching so bloody calmly as though they were talking about something other than the decision which created him.

All of Russia's subordinate territories were carefully edging away, a slow, steady creep so that each time England blinked there was a little more distance between them and their master. All except East, who seemed completely oblivious to the silent menace. Seemed to actually _trust_ Russia.

If that wasn't wrong, England didn't know what wrong was.

He summoned all his British Empire superiority, giving Russia the look that said _you are less than an insect_, and said, "You signed as well."

Russia seemed unaffected. "As did Germany." His smile grew a little broader. "Although his signature came at gunpoint."

Of course it bloody had. Germany could hardly be expected to _want_ to destroy his brother like that, even though the two of them hadn't exchanged more than a dozen words the entire time they'd been imprisoned. "Yours did not." England kept his voice cold, crisp. "In any case, waving your latest pet around is hardly productive. How much of 'East Germany' is actually run by the people?" He made no attempt to hide his sarcasm.

Russia's soft, rolling laughter made England's stomach clench, and that was before he said, "East is still finding his way, England. As he grows more accustomed to his new life he will have less need of my aid."

The smile 'East' gave Russia was quite enough to turn England's stomach. Gratitude and something that wasn't quite adoration weren't the kind of things anyone should offer the avatar of Russia. For those to come from the man who had been Prussia was worse.

#

Germany often thought it was unfortunate that World Council meetings which coincided with major international events always brought the bosses out in force. This one, alas, was no exception, and there was no escaping the boss-and-avatar reception held after dinner.

All the Warsaw Pact bosses stayed together with their avatars close by, and the NATO bosses and avatars kept to their own cluster. Germany and his boss were still technically occupied territory despite the _Bundesrepublik Deutschland _having been formally recognized as a nation – while East remained under Russian control that wasn't going to change – and his people had only recently been allowed to rearm themselves. Only for self-defense, of course: the NATO powers wouldn't allow more than that.

It rankled, but Germany knew better than to complain. If not for the Soviets pouring weapons and soldiers into East Germany, he wouldn't have that much. Wouldn't have the not-quite-independence he'd been granted or the self-defense-only army they were letting him build. After all, it was only appropriate the German soldiers take the brunt of the next war.

He hated it. Hated the quiet, deferential creature that wore his brother's body. Mostly though, he hated his own weakness. Hated that his mistakes had led to such horrific disasters _twice_. That he'd been so easily deceived, easily led by that disgusting little creature with his fixation on glories that had never existed. That his brother had taken the price Germany should have paid, and fallen.

Not a hint of his thoughts touched his face. He spoke calmly, without emotion, giving the expected replies to the few comments addressed to him. Doing what was necessary.

Loud laughter: America joking about something, his President looking exasperated. Nearby, England with a sour face, studying the Warsaw Pact while the English Prime Minister and the French President discussed something Germany didn't care to know. If it involved him he'd be told his part later. If not, it didn't matter. He was nothing more than Europe's buffer zone, despite his economy doing so well his currency had almost completely recovered from the war – although maybe the sheer scope of the war's destruction had a little to do with that. Everything moved when you had to rebuild it all. None of his cities had escaped: all the lovely old churches and palaces with their centuries of history had burned or been smashed as thoroughly as the soulless monuments of the Nazis.

The difference was that people rebuilt the churches and the palaces as best they could. The soulless monuments they happily left destroyed, although they were keeping the camps as museums – so they would never again forget that civilized people could commit atrocities far more barbaric than any barbarian. That _they_ had done this to their neighbors, their friends, their fellow Germans. That in those mad years, they'd been so desperate for a little honor they'd been willing to believe the poison spewed by that filthy Austrian.

Germany approved of the idea, though he doubted it would last. Drawing lines around little groups, claiming that those inside the line were 'us' and good and proper and those outside were 'them' and evil and dangerous was something humans did. Something they infected their avatars with. Sometimes the lines got broader and the little groups got bigger. Sometimes they drew in, when people were scared and needed someone to hate. They always existed.

Prussia had taught him that – although the language he'd used had been rather more... direct. He usually was direct when he was imparting knowledge no matter how he'd dance around a topic and play with it and wage verbal war on it if there was no need to transmit information. Regardless, Prussia chose how he'd do things, and did them his way. And usually made them work for him, somehow. Even the impossible or nearly.

Germany remembered years before, when he'd been a child, how his brother had laughed when asked why he kept going to war if he'd come home so beaten and bloodied from it his baby brother had to help him with his wounds. Prussia's answer had been purely and simply him: _I love it, brother. The fighting, the clash of swords, my blade finding my enemy's weaknesses and making them pay. I love it more than I hate losing._

The one time he'd seen his brother fighting sword-to-sword he'd understood: the wild elation that lit Prussia's red eyes and the fierce grin that showed his teeth were things that not even hunting could bring out. Only battles. So Prussia went to war and planned and aimed to win but if he didn't he paid the price and shrugged and planned the next war. And the next.

Because as long as there was war, there would be Prussia fighting it.

The thought made Germany's eyes burn. There wouldn't be Prussia fighting any more wars.

While he knew it was a good thing, the determination of the other nations that there must never be another war like the last – poor Japan's burns from those new super-weapons of America's were still raw after ten years where most of Germany's wounds had healed – it still left him without his brother.

Alone.

Even Italy Veniciano avoided him these days – although Germany wasn't sure how much of that was Italy Romano's doing. The southern Italy had never been fond of Germany, and was now outright hostile. While the absence of bubbly and often silly conversation wasn't exactly unwelcome, Germany missed having someone around who simply _liked_ him. Someone who didn't demand anything.

He blinked when he found himself at the drinks table beside 'East', and nearly jumped out of his skin when that avatar who wasn't his brother, who didn't feel or act at _all_ like his brother quickly tapped out a message in Morse code with his left hand, a message shielded by the fact that both of them were reaching for the dark bottles of beer. The message was simple enough: _I'm still me. Faking. Try to talk later. Watched._

Germany opened the bottle – bottled was never as good, but at least they had something better than the wretched lightweight stuff America called beer – and carefully poured, his fingers on the glass tapping out a reply. _ OK. Will wait. Be safe._

He didn't get a response, but then he didn't expect one.

Instead, 'East' asked, "Do these events always involve this kind of... gathering?" The question was polite, curious – with just a tiny hint of distaste.

Germany couldn't help thinking that his brother would have already caused utter chaos – if he wasn't flirting with the bosses' wives or the female avatars – or the bosses or the _male_ avatars – he'd be inciting fights, winding people up and... being Prussia. All he said, though, was, "It's not common. We generally meet once a month, although attendance varies."

'East' of course would be there if Russia wanted him there. It was the same with all the Soviet nations.

"Is much accomplished?" The albino took a long swallow and sighed, eyes half-closed. "I didn't even know I was missing this."

The hedonistic pleasure in the smaller avatar's expression was all Prussia, bringing a slight smile to Germany's lips. "Only that we don't bother our bosses, I think," he murmured, then added with a little more volume, "It is decent beer."

"Then I should perhaps avoid the good beer in case I die of pleasure." It was phrased more politely than Prussia would say it, but it was still...

Germany's smile broadened a tiny amount. His brother was still Prussia. He hadn't been broken, hadn't been destroyed. He was simply playing some long-running game whose goals he chose not to reveal – or possibly dared not reveal.

A flicker of memory, from something that hadn't been a dream, a sense of two hearts beating together, two working together towards a goal neither had ever stated openly but both knew and desired.

'East' offered a hint of a smile. "I believe my presence is required." He glanced over to his boss – the man was speaking with Russia's boss – and lifted a hand in a half-salute. "Perhaps we can discuss the merits of beer some other time."

Germany watched him leave, thoughtful. He'd never really lost his connection to the people in the east: they were still German, still his. It wasn't much of an effort to find the link to East's boss, to listen as the man – disgusting specimen, full of dreams of power mingled with fear of the Soviets – berated his brother for 'consorting' with the enemy.

He nearly spat out his beer when his brother replied with earnest innocence – when did Prussia learn to fake _that_ – "Surely you jest, comrade. How are we to bring these poor folk to the joys of communism if we allow them to see nothing of the true dialectic?" The words might be gibberish, but they were followed by something even more nonsensical that Germany was sure was a quote.

The anger surging through the human's mind pushed Germany's light touch away. He glanced in his brother's direction and carefully didn't smile to see the East German boss red-faced with anger while his brother just held that ever-so-earnest look that was apparently driving the man insane.

For the first time since he'd seen 'East', the tight knot around Germany's heart eased. Yes, Prussia was still there. 'East' was nothing more than a face his brother was using, a game.

_May it end soon_, he thought. _Until then, be safe, my brother._

###


	4. End of an Era

The air crackled with energy: the excitement of people ready to claim their freedom after years of virtual slavery. The avatar of East Germany could taste it, that odd indefinable _something_ that said there would be action today. Today that damned wall was coming down no matter the cost.

He rose, showered, and dressed the festering wounds marking his back – the sign of an avatar whose people were abused by their own leaders – donned faded trousers and a threadbare shirt, buttoning the cuffs to hide the tattoo on his left arm, the most visible legacy of his time as a prisoner in Auschwitz.

He shrugged on a faded brown jacket as he always did when he had no need for what passed as formal wear – which meant his military uniform, the uniform of an East German general – glanced around his two-room apartment. It amused Russia no end and pissed off Khrushchev something fierce when he'd insisted he receive nothing better than the standard apartments allotted to his people, claiming he could always use a spare office in one of the many anonymous official buildings for any business matters. He'd given a few bosses heartburn refusing to set foot in the glittering abomination they'd built to replace his beloved Stadtschloss – covering his disdain with some choice Marxist prattle aimed at tormenting the bastards. In the years since he'd awakened he'd become rather _good_ at that.

He walked from the apartment as he always did, snagging an ugly – but practical and more importantly a style that hid his white hair – brown hat from the rack on his way out the door. He jammed the hat on his head as he walked, pulling it low and hunching a bit as though he was cold. There was no need to think about his actions: they were habitual, as were the quick glances behind sunglasses that protected his eyes from excessive light – and made it harder for anyone to to see his red eyes. To identify him.

Habit to mark those around him, to locate the Stasi men following him – three of them today, all young, with no real interest in their task. Half-trained, too, he noted with amusement that didn't touch his face. All those years of work, finally paying off. Seeding little bits of anti-commie propaganda into all the official bumf, corrupting the crap Russia's people were exporting all over the damn world... that was the easy job. Doing that while playing loyal little East, sycophant, devoted communist, and Russia's best friend... it wasn't that much harder.

The challenge had been infiltrating the assorted secret police and crippling _them_. The Stasi were easier, being his people. He could hook into them because they were part of him, ramp up their paranoia until they were the biggest damn employer in the country if you counted all the people supposedly reporting to them. He got the paranoia so high they had school kids spying for them, presumably reporting excessively capitalist lunches. Flooding the bastards with more information than they could possibly process, and then twisting it, so they'd go after each other as often as not.

Russia's KGB, though... _That_ was a challenge. Those pricks were cold, and damn good at what they did. Of course, the fact that they were never quite sure what they were supposed to be doing made things a little easier: you had to handle interrogations differently when you wanted information than when you were chasing a confession, and Russia's bosses being the psychotic charmers they were, they never really knew if they wanted confessions or information more.

He'd used that, used their massive stores of information and resources, tapped into their surveillance and then embarrassed them by being _so_ innocent and earnest and sickeningly communist they couldn't nail a thing to him. None of them had any idea why so many East Germans were able to get out. Hell, the stupid bastards never even suspected poor little East who looked like he might just cry when the topic was raised.

Well, Russia might have, but presenting him with sunflowers – year round, even – diverted the bigger avatar from any questions about East's motives.

East made no attempt to lose his tails, just blended into the flow of the crowd as he usually did, walking towards the anonymous office buildings that housed the modest room he used for what paperwork he was expected to do – pure formality that. He didn't have the authority to refuse anything: he was just an expected rubber stamp. So instead of being that, he'd add Marxist commentary on the failings of whatever documents he was given to sign before providing the necessary signatures.

Getting their own filthy propaganda in their faces drove the little shits _wild_. He loved doing that. Even though now he was more than strong enough to take them down personally, tear them limb from limb, it was so much more satisfying to play the innocent and puncture them with their own damn words, with their own supposed beliefs. Particularly when he could do it in public.

Quoting Marx at the pricks in public to rebuke them was something he'd never have expected to enjoy, but he'd found a perverse pleasure in tormenting them that way – all while appearing perfectly innocent. He didn't care that they thought he was a bit... dim. He could needle them better that way, like the time he'd ever so innocently driven Brezhnev into frothing rage with his innocent questions about the man's collection of fake medals. _What did you do to earn such an honor, Comrade Brezhnev? _

With his hat pulled low, his coat and gloves hiding his pale skin, and his red eyes behind sunglasses, he was just another anonymous figure in the crowd, easily lost. The Stasi boys soon fell behind, confused.

Of course, he'd shifted his posture half a dozen times since joining the crowd. Nothing big, just a little straighter and more assertive here, then around a corner he'd be more uncertain, as though his balance wasn't right. Little things, but they played hell with the Stasi's surveillance programs.

Not that he usually _did_ anything out of line when he lost his tails – normally he did exactly what was expected of him. They'd given up on the cameras in his apartment after the third or fourth time he'd stepped into that other realm from the apartment. The cameras were still there, but they weren't on: he could hear the silence, the absence of power. More than that, he hadn't felt any Stasi minds breaking because he vanished – and he kept a close watch on the minds of the Stasi tools monitoring him. It wouldn't do to have them suspect sweet, innocent East, oh no.

_Particularly _when 'sweet innocent East' was the driving force behind a good number of the revolts as well as the defections. They were all still German, and the part of him he shared with his brother still felt them, so it was no concern of his which side of the wall they chose. And _especially_ not when he was drawn to his _other_ people, the nation he'd never so much as allowed himself to think of. The source of the sunflowers he gave Russia – it was really rather sweet: they had a greenhouse specifically for sunflowers so no matter when he dropped by there'd always be sunflowers in bloom and perfect to take back and present to the other man.

The first time he'd done it, Russia had started crying – in front of _Stalin_. He still got misty-eyed every time East gave him a bright yellow flower, so East sometimes just went to that other nation to bring Russia a sunflower or two. Partly out of pity for a man so lonely and used that something as simple as bringing him a fucking _flower_ moved him to tears, and partly for the much more practical reason that if he only brought the things when he needed to there'd be a pattern for someone to figure out. He couldn't afford that. Not then, and not now with his goal so close he could smell it in the charged air, the uncharacteristic excitement around him.

He let the crowd pull him past the dreary communist-built apartments and office blocks, past the walled-off empty places where buildings destroyed by the war had yet to be replaced nearly forty five years later. The Wall loomed, turning divided Berlin into a prison, a concrete monstrosity whose victims held a special place in his heart, in the deep wound splitting his heart in two, but he moved past that, to the anonymous buildings full of offices, where faceless drones did the work of actually running the country. Where he kept his office, to do whatever official work was expected of him.

#

There was nothing in his office worth bothering with, so East left as quietly as he'd entered. He was effectively invisible now, a dull figure in a dull building, unnoticed as he made his way to the basements where ridiculous amounts of data lay rotting.

From there, a slight twist of thought opened those other paths to him. He stepped through, vanishing from human eyes – not that there were any to see. He straightened, a twist of the wrist bringing his sword to his hand, the grip smooth and comfortable, the weapon an extension of his arm.

Nothing disturbed him in his short journey: the nameless creatures spawned by human fears reacted to hope as though it was acid. He sensed them nearby, a scurrying sound here, a burr of leathery flesh rasping against a hard surface there, a nervous skitter, a hint of a sour scent... They knew he was there, but there was too much hope around him, too much happiness from his people. They wouldn't try to take him, not now, and especially not with his sword ready.

He returned the weapon to its insubstantial home – he'd never worked out how he did it, he just knew how to keep the sword in that place and summon it when he needed it. He'd been born with the knowledge, he thought sometimes – and stepped back into the human world, his shoulders slumping and hunching forward as he once again took on the demeanor of mild, innocent little East.

Who absolutely should not be where he was right now.

There was no one else here, a dim room cluttered with filing cabinets and shelves deep below the Stasi building. Everything here was shared with the KGB, of course, which was how he fucked with their sad little minds so much. Being East, even though he didn't have the official authorization to be here he still belonged in a way commie minds couldn't follow. If he didn't want to be noticed, he wouldn't be noticed.

The same could not be said of KGB headquarters.

He moved quickly, without sound, to the terminals that linked to a supercomputer that filled the floor above. There, his gloved fingers danced over the keyboard, gaining root access, then carefully editing key items. Never anything much, nothing that would be noticed. A word deleted here, a name changed there. Little things, but always in places that would do the most damage to the creaky, ailing communist regimes.

Nobody entered the room while he worked, which was normal. These archives didn't get much access, being so secret that only a handful of Stasi bigwigs knew they existed. And East, of course. He'd made it his business to know _everything_ his people did, especially the commie bastards and their power apparatus. It wasn't the same as a real war, but it served to keep him interested, keep him wanting to live. And the end goal was so close now, so achingly close...

God, how he was sick of this game, this long farce pretending to be something else. It was time for East to die and Prussia to return.

_Not yet_. The Wall was still there. The commies still ran East Germany.

He straightened, smiled. There was no trace of his work save in the alterations he'd made. Even the timestamps were unchanged. You just had to know the right commands.

A glance at his watch: a little after seven at night. The fizzing energy from his people surged, bringing a gasp from him. _Schabowski said the gates would be opened effectively immediately._ A commie _boss_ ordered the checkpoints to open.

He could feel the news spreading, feel his people gathering at the checkpoints demanding to be let through. Feel the bewilderment and fear of the border guards who had no idea what was happening.

East knew where he had to be.

#

It wasn't a crowd any more: it was an army. An army of civilians, of prisoners in all but name, but to him, an army was nothing more than a group of people with a single goal. Today the goal was to bring down the checkpoints, to open the gates and end the rule of the wall.

East hoped for his people's sake that it would end without violence although he personally could use some therapeutic slaughter. His little hunting expeditions in the other realm weren't the same, and the world didn't really take that well to old-style war these days. Every death had to be accounted for, every name checked off some list somewhere, and the damn media was always there watching, ready to pounce when anyone put a single toenail out of line.

Even Russia's endless stream of bastard bosses had mellowed enough to pretend they were following the same rules.

Someone started singing, one of the 'forbidden' Western rock songs that everyone seemed to know nonetheless. A few others took up the tune, then it faded back into chanting. The air crackled, excitement that would take only one thing to turn deadly. One mistake from the border guards, one shot.

Part of him hoped one of them would be stupid enough to do it. The people, his people, had him wound so tight he'd welcome the change to release a bit of tension.

One of the men on guard duty made another desperate phone call to beg for guidance against the insistent demands of "Schabowski said it was open now."

He saw through someone else's eyes as the guards looked at each other, as they shrugged, then one of them tipped the gate barrier up and locked it that way before retreating into the guard house and turning his back on the people who surged forward.

They hesitated a moment, not really believing that after so long the cage door was open. Someone took a few steps forward. A woman followed. When no gunshots came, others joined them, a surge of gleeful humanity streaming into the death strip, the chanting gone quiet now in favor of savoring the first breaths of free air.

More cheers, this time from the Western side, and people met in the middle, Westerners giving complete strangers bottles of beer, wine, flowers... anything. Strangers throwing away their German reserve and embracing, the words, "Welcome home." "Welcome back." repeated a hundred, a thousand times.

Families separated for forty years rejoined, elderly parents reunited with their grown children, the grandchildren they'd never met. Siblings meeting for the first time in years.

East let the crowd bring him through, savoring the celebration, the laughter and happy tears all the sweeter for being delayed so long. It felt so damn _good_, so right after so many years playing the game, being what he had to be to bring this about. So many years gradually weakening Russia's bosses until he finally got one he could nudge ever so carefully towards opening up to the West again. It was a shame the fellow had no idea how to handle an economy, but Russia's people would recover, and they'd be better for it in time.

His people would suffer the same transition, and it would hurt. They'd wish for the stifling surety of communist rule at times, but in time they'd no longer be East or West, they'd just be German. Maybe he'd move on then, maybe not. It would be generations before that happened anyway, and who knew what else could occur?

"Gilbert!"

He spun, not expecting to hear his human name used in a crowd like this. Not ever expecting to hear it. Only his brother and a handful of others even knew it, and his brother was the only living being with permission to use it. To call him by his human name.

_There_. His brother's blond hair, still worn in that severe, slicked back style. And of course the equally severe business suit, but Germany's hands were dusty and bleeding in places, and he had a chunk of that damned wall in his right hand as though he planned to throw it at any border guard who got out of line.

He was the best thing East had seen in fifty years.

They met in the middle of the death strip, or as close to it as made no difference, throwing normal reserve to the night and the crowds, embracing with all their strength as though they never intended to let go, ever.

For once East didn't try to hold back his tears, didn't try to claim he wasn't crying. His brother's breath, hot against his ear, his brother's tears burning his skin... No, he wasn't going to let anything interfere with the agonizing joy that seared his heart, the pain as their divided hearts began to heal at least.

Finally his brother pulled back a little, though his hands remained resting on his shoulders while they studied each other.

East smiled. A genuine smile, the first in years. "You look good, West."

He did, too. Germany had gone from strength to strength. The hardness of the war had been replaced with the firmness of a man who knew his strengths and weaknesses and knew precisely how far he could push. The surety of someone who has faced his worst fears and defeated them.

The blue eyes softened. "So do you, brother. Better than I feared, with what we've been hearing over here."

East let his smile shift into the dry little smirk he'd kept locked away for so many years. "I told you I'd be back."

Germany smiled and pulled him into another tight embrace. "God how I've missed you."

"I missed you, too." East let his head rest against his brother's shoulder. "It's been a long, cold war, this one."

"Don't leave me again." Germany's whisper hinted at years of loneliness, of fears he would likely never admit.

East – no, _Prussia_ – pulled his brother closer. "Never again, little brother. You'll be putting up with me for a long, long time yet."

#

It took several days before Prussia could move back to the house he'd once shared with his brother: an old mansion on the outskirts of Berlin, just inside the East-West border. The border fence cut the grounds in two, but the house itself was entirely within West Berlin, and he'd made _damn_ sure that nothing, but nothing touched the land on the East side of the fence.

He'd have to sneak into the archives and change the records back once things settled down and the border fence was dismantled the way people were doing to the Wall. It wouldn't do to have five different non-existent departments arguing over the place when it rightfully belonged to him and his brother.

He claimed the basement, as much because the lack of natural light was easier for his eyes – the damage sunlight did healed about as fast as it happened, but meant his eyes ached when he was tired, so better to avoid that if he could – as because after so long with Soviet austerity he'd lost what taste for luxury he'd had. Electricity that didn't cut out erratically and working hot water was luxury enough for him right now.

Moving his belongings in was a simple matter of loading a battered suitcase and some boxes into his barely useful Trabant – God, the jokes about those ugly little cardboard cars, but with Easterners streaming to the West in them they'd become part of the legend, and he was one of them now, another Easterner coming West with high hopes for a unified Germany in his heart.

His brother supplied most of the furnishings, along with new clothes, insisting that it was small repayment for the joy of being together again. In return, Prussia took up household chores. He might not be as anal about neatness as his brother, but he did like cleanliness and order – and he really didn't like feeling that he owed his little brother anything.

Sure it would get sorted out, and once all the formalities got done he'd be getting a regular payment that was somewhere between a salary and a stipend for being who and what he was. That struck him as a better way than the old days when the boss supplied everything, better than the commies continuing that tradition.

This way the income was his to use – and if he couldn't live on it, the fault was his. Not that Prussia expected problems. He'd had centuries to build reserves and hidden caches where he kept weapons and gold and assorted other items. It was part of being prepared for anything, part of the art of logistics. He didn't intend to dip into those reserves, but knowing they were _there_ helped. He'd have to check the western ones soon – he hadn't wanted to risk being seen outside the Iron Curtain lest it damage the whole 'East' charade. No doubt he'd need to replace a number of things, and now he'd have access to more reliable replacements, not the Soviet crap in his eastern stashes.

All in all, it took almost two weeks before the night he pulled his brother from the endless paperwork with a simple, "It's time I told you what I was up to, West," and fetched beer for both of them. For him because he needed it to relax enough to explain, for his brother because it would be cruel to drink Germany's beer and not give him any.

Sitting on the sofa with his brother beside him, listening quietly while he spoke. It could have been heaven, if not for what Prussia was saying, the many less than awesome things he had to reveal. With the beer's help, he told his brother all of it, all except that link he tried to pretend wasn't there most of the time because it was just so fucking embarrassing. Hell, he'd been a more or less good Catholic ever since he'd been the Teutonic Knights. And besides, it wasn't like he'd _intended_ to do it. It just kind of happened, the same way his link to the camps kind of happened.

Germany listened, blue eyes distant, thoughtful. Sometimes a hint of a smile touched his face.

Prussia didn't ask. He just explained how he'd ever so innocently disrupted the Soviets, how he'd driven first Stalin, then Khrushchev and Brezhnev to frothing breakdowns – and in Stalin's case a fatal stroke – how he'd done the same to his own bosses all while building resistance and helping defectors to escape. While he'd subverted the secret police and propaganda and spying, all the while pretending to be clueless and loyal.

His brother's smile widened at that. "A war of words and diplomacy, Prussia?" His blue eyes gleamed. "There are some who would say you don't have that in you."

Prussia grinned. "There are some who've forgotten just _how_ the Kingdom of Prussia became great. It wasn't just battles and wars."

Germany's answering smile wasn't exactly innocent or sweet. "May they regret their folly."

"Oh, they will." Prussia gave his hissing, snickering laugh, the one he used to tease or torment. "They will. But not before we've got this unification official. Not until we're both Germany." He draped his free arm around his brother's shoulder. "That old paperwork should help cement it." Took a long swig. "Unless you want a new agreement."

His brother looked uncomfortable for a moment, then he said, "Not a new agreement, just some... amendments to the original. After all, the original was drawn up with... assumptions that are no longer correct."

Such a roundabout way to say he'd still had his own nation to care for when they'd first created that union. Prussia ruffled his brother's hair. "You can say it, Ludwig. Really. I'm used to it these days." He shrugged with his left shoulder – the right was pressed against his brother's arm. "Besides, the amount of paperwork your boss drops on you, you need someone to help."

Germany flinched. "My God, yes. There's so _much_, and it never seems to stop." He sighed. "Would you do me one favor, Gilbert?" He turned a little so they were face to face again. "Take the military."

Prussia blinked. Of all the possibilities of union, this was one he hadn't expected. He hadn't expected _anyone_ to trust him with an army ever again. "You can't be serious."

"I'm quite serious." Germany stood, started pacing. "I've had forty years to think about this. About where I went wrong." He took a deep breath, let it out on a sigh. "I'm not... a leader. I'm a soldier and a good one, but I'm not a leader. You are. My country – _our_ country – needs a leader, and the military especially, since we had to rebuild from nothing."

His mouth was completely dry. Prussia had to empty his beer before he could say, "You've thought a lot about this."

"I have."

"You'd better show me the damn paperwork, then." If he didn't agree his brother would turn the puppy-eyes on him, and Prussia had never been able to resist that. Something else occurred to him then, and he grinned – his best, fiercest, shit-eating grin. "It's going to be so fucking awesome when the others find out."

For a moment Germany looked startled, then he gave a grin that matched Prussia's, and hauled his brother to his feet, pulled him into a tight embrace. "Oh, yes," he said in a low growl that hit Prussia's spine somewhere below his waist and vibrated down to his vital regions.

His _and_ his brother's. Both sets of vital regions were very much awake and... interested. "Fuck."

Germany flushed a bit. Glanced down. Gave a look that couldn't _possibly_ be the mix of coy and flirting it looked like. "Was that an invitation, brother?"

"Not... precisely." Of all the shitty times for his libido to wake up. "Remember, Prussia does not make love. Or even have sex."

Another of those low, ridiculously enticing and fucking _teasing_ growls. "I remember. Prussia fucks his rivals into the ground. The table. The bed. Or wherever else they happen to be." The amusement in Germany's blue eyes didn't do anything for Prussia's self-control. "Consider it consummating our 'marriage'."

"I'll hurt you." Damn it, no matter how much he joked, he'd _never_ been able to get off without at least imagining the other party as a defeated enemy on the wrong side of the traditional victory salute. Never. He couldn't even jerk off without that imagery – it was part of what he was. Something he'd never admitted to _anyone_ because it wasn't just cruel it was fucking sick, and so completely _wrong_, but with his brother it would be even more horribly wrong.

Germany's voice scattered his spinning thoughts. "I'm aware of that, Gilbert." The switch to his human name meant more intimacy than Prussia wanted to deal with right now. "I know you can't help it."

"You... you do?" He'd never told anyone, ever. Well, apart from more Popes than he could remember, but that was different. The Pope was his confessor, and anything he said there never left the confessional. He knew for a fact he wasn't the only avatar who took confession in the Vatican, and he was _almost_ sure the others had sins as grave as his. Almost.

A smile, soft and unguarded. "Of course. I lived with you for years, and I'm not deaf. You didn't really believe I never heard you masturbate, did you?"

Prussia's face had caught fire. Maybe not literally, but it felt like someone just applied a blow torch. Damn, he'd never figured on that. He'd thought his brother either had no idea what was going on – the most likely scenario, all things considered – or chose _not_ to hear. Simple acceptance? Never. "You watched, didn't you?" But he couldn't stop himself from grinning.

The smile broadened, and the fine skin around his brother's eyes crinkled a bit when he laughed softly. "I wasn't _quite_ as well-behaved as you thought."

"Obviously. You must have been better than I was at not getting caught," Prussia had to admit. He laughed softly. "You're crazy, you know that? Fucking insane, wanting this." Wanting _him_.

Germany only shrugged. "I'm all grown up now." Again that low growl that set his vital regions on fire with need. "Well?"

He was Prussia. He was fucking _awesome_. But there was still only so much he could take. He wrapped his arms around Germany's waist, and whispered, "You have too much clothing on. _Strip_."

###


	5. Awesome Return

Germany watched without expression as his fellow avatars entered the conference room. Most were tense – everyone wanted to know what this, the first World Council meeting since the reunification of Germany, would bring. He'd never admit it, but but he was looking forward to this. Vengeance had been a long time coming.

More than a few of the avatars looked around, trying to read his non-expression or searching for East. They wouldn't find anything, not yet. Or ever, really. Quiet, submissive East was as dead as last year's sunflowers. Not that he'd ever really existed.

He glanced at his watch. Five minutes before the meeting was due to start. It might be wrong of him to anticipate this so very eagerly, but Germany didn't care. They deserved it. All the avatars, but the old Allies more than anyone. With the possible exceptions of France and America, although Germany wasn't in a particularly merciful frame of mind. That Austrian bastard might have ordered him to unify with his brother in the thirties, but he hadn't tried to eliminate even the _memory_ of Prussia the way the Allies did. Even without their 'marriage' he and Prussia would have continued to work together for as long as the Prussian people saw themselves as Prussian rather than German. Maybe even longer, if they moved to being German _and_ Prussian. The Allies had shattered that and left a wound that couldn't heal.

No, forgiveness was not something Germany would entertain for a long time.

France bickered with England, but the argument was subdued and there was none of the usual heat. Hell, it looked like they were only arguing for the sake of it, and the little glances they shot Germany's way when they thought he wasn't looking proved it.

America didn't try to hide anything. He studied the door for a while, looking like he wasn't sure whether to be pleased or worried, then turned back to Germany. Door. Germany. Door. Germany.

Germany allowed the faintest hint of a smile to touch his face. Three minutes.

Russia's creepy little half-smile took on a suggestion of bemusement as he turned a blank gaze from France and England to Germany, then to the orientals where Korea was trying – again – to claim China's non-existent breasts. The Russian seemed to be trying to decide whether he should ask why Germany hadn't intervened in any of the half-hearted arguments.

The first hint of a frown began to darken Russia's face.

Twenty seconds.

Russia opened his mouth to speak.

At precisely 09:00, the door of the conference room slammed open. The walls shook, but nothing fell – the staff must have reinforced the walls after the last World Council meeting, when an argument between France and England had somehow turned into a multiple-avatar brawl and seen a ridiculous amount of property damage not limited to a length of pipe with faucet attached being punched through a wall.

Never mind that: Germany basked in the wonderful sight of every avatar in the meeting – _all_ of them, even Russia – looking utterly stunned. It was a delightful thing when a plan came together, especially when it did so like _this._

His brother stood in the doorway in full military uniform – complete with _all_ the insignia that went with his rank as General Inspector, the leader of the German military. Well, except that being Prussia he'd had his dress uniform made in decidedly non-standard Prussian blue. His silver-white hair, always too soft to sit neatly without a ridiculous amount of gel, was in its usual state of disarray, but he wore his trademark shit-eating grin and his little bird perched happily on his head. He looked like Prussia again, not that sad 'East' creature.

"The awesome Prussia is _back_, bitches!" Prussia stalked into the room, a predator surveying the lovely selection of prey assembled for his entertainment, stopped to stand beside Germany. "And for this morning, all of you are _mine_."

Russia flinched. By all that was holy, Russia actually _flinched_. Germany had to throttle a threatened outbreak of utterly un-Germanic glee. This was Prussia's show: he wasn't going to spoil it.

England was first to find his voice. "Shouldn't you be fading?" If anyone failed to hear the unspoken 'Teutonic wanker' they were either deaf or stupid.

Prussia's hissing, mocking laughter had such a vicious edge it left some of the younger avatars blinking back tears. Switzerland pulled Liechtenstein into a protective embrace. "You don't get rid of me that easily, eyebrows." Prussia's grin got fiercer, which shouldn't have been possible. He didn't explain, though, just said, "First on the agenda for today: you fuckers are repealing Law Number 46. You are _not_ dissolving any of us again." He glared around the room, the fierceness of it all but catching England and Russia alight. They should have been killed by that glare. "And now let me tell you why." His voice dropped to something that wasn't really a whisper. "_It doesn't heal_."

America paled. He looked as though he regretted that last hamburger he'd stuffed in before he entered the room.

Germany hoped said hamburger wouldn't make a precipitous reappearance.

England - apparently on the verge of another outbreak of British Empire - returned the glare with interest and a side of disdain. "What do you mean, 'doesn't heal'?"

Prussia's tone shifted to something darker. "Let me put it this way. There is a raw, burning place inside where Prussia used to be. It hurts as much now as it did when you fuckers dissolved my nation – you know, when I screamed my throat raw." That should have drawn blood. "Worse, every one of my _people_, everyone who should have been Prussian, has the same damn wound. Even the fucking _babies_."

More than a few of the gathered avatars looked rather green. Germany would have been among them if he hadn't known about this for almost a year. The knowledge still made his stomach churn, knowing that his people were suffering for something they had no part in, something done before their birth. It was one of the reasons he was enjoying the discomfort of the former Allies.

"You were supposed to die, wanker." England, of course. He seemed to take Prussia's current robust health and obvious strength as a personal insult.

Prussia only grinned at him, red eyes gleaming. "And that, my friends, is why you do your research." He nodded to England, then to China, then Russia. "Why don't I show you what you've unleashed, hm?" He unbuttoned his uniform coat, let it slide from his shoulders, and draped the coat on the back of Germany's chair.

Switzerland covered Liechtenstein's eyes.

"No. Let her see, Switzerland." Prussia's voice cut through a fast-rising buzz of speculation. "I'm not stripping so you can ogle my awesome body." He sneered, undoing the last of the buttons of his shirt while he spoke. "You're more likely to run to the bathroom to puke." And slipped the white shirt off.

Choked gasps rose from more than a few throats.

Germany didn't need to look to know why: his brother's torso was _covered_ in bandages. He'd been helping to change the dressings ever since the wall came down, despite his brother's insistence that he could do the job on his own.

Prussia ignored the shock, started unwrapping the bandages while he spoke. "See, the wounds you get when your people turn on each other are much harder to heal."

America nodded, looking thoughtful – though still more than a little nauseous.

"When a boss turns on his people, well..." A length of bloodied cloth fell away, then another. "_Those_ won't heal until there's nobody alive to remember, and there's another two generations before the scars fade and the wounds stop hurting. Ask me how I know this, children, I dare you."

France made a choked sound and buried his face in his hands.

The last bandage fell to the floor, and Prussia spun on his toes, turning to give all the gathered avatars a good view of his back. The scars lacing his chest looked downright friendly compared to the mass of angry festering sores that covered Prussia's back. Germany knew from too many bandaging sessions that there was nowhere with more than a hand's breadth of whole skin anywhere on his brother's back. He still didn't know how Prussia had been able to dress the wounds on his own, but he had, and for nearly forty years.

Prussia reached over his left shoulder, indicated one of the gaping wounds with a black-gloved finger. "Auschwitz."

"That's in Poland!"

There was a kind of grim amusement in Prussia's response. "Whose back bears the wound, Poland? It's _mine_." He laughed bitterly. "They were _my_ people that fucker sent there to rot. Hardly surprising I ended up adopting everyone else in the shithole." He indicated another crater-like sore. "Bergen-Belsen." And another. "Buchenwald." Another, and another. "Treblinka. Dachau." The litany continued, wound after wound, camp after camp, until at last he gave a Russian name.

Russia surged to his feet. "That is _my_ land."

"Is it you with the hole in your back showing bone, Russia?" Prussia didn't flinch from the bigger man's glare. "You changed my bandages for five years. What the fuck did you think the new wounds were?"

Russia blinked, his hands closing around his scarf, clutching so tight his knuckles showed white against his skin. "But you... you..."

"I was fucking _hibernating_ after having my soul ripped out," Prussia snarled. "I didn't exactly plan this." He turned and leaned forward, resting gloved hands on the desk. The number tattooed on his left forearm was stark against his pale skin. "But it happened. The whole world was on a fucking 'let's torture Prussia' jag, so why not take on a little more. It's only pain."

America had tears in his eyes when he said, "I never got the chance to say this before, but... sorry. I wish..."

Prussia cut him off with a wave of one hand. "You argued against it, kid. More than that, you argued against it when you believed I was guiltier than original sin."

America's face was about the same color as one of Spain's tomatoes. He looked down, his hands gripping the table so tightly Germany couldn't help being surprised the wood wasn't splintering in his hands.

"So. Proposition one: Repeal Law Number 46. Those in favor?"

All the younger nations voted for the motion with no hesitation. After a moment, Hungary raised her hand, then Austria. Poland followed, looking as though he wasn't sure this was a good idea, then the three Baltics.

Germany kept his left hand raised while he noted votes, nodded to Prussia once he had the tally.

"Against?" Prussia's harsh tone dared anyone to vote against the motion.

None of the avatars did.

Germany cleared his throat. "Motion to strike down Law Number 46: Provision to dissolve a nation is passed with eighty two votes in favor and none against. England, Russia, China, and North Korea abstained. The motion is carried by a majority vote."

His brother acknowledged the result with a quick smile, then turned back to the gathered avatars – all of whom seemed more than a bit shell-shocked.

Not that Germany blamed them. The ones that knew Prussia knew his shit-stirring and bluster for the most part. They hadn't seen – or had forgotten – the ruthlessly organized and above all _effective_ dynamo. The avatar who'd taken his people from next to nothing to a power to match the empires of England, France, and Spain, and done it with precious little help from anyone else.

"Next." Prussia's voice wasn't loud, but it was pitched to carry over the buzz of conversation. "We're going to stop punishing each other for the actions of rogue bosses."

Most of the European avatars recoiled, as did all the Asians.

Prussia waved a finger at them in mock admonishment. "Now, now, don't go getting your lederhosen in a knot. I'm not talking about doing away with the traditional victory gang bang. That serves a purpose even if your first time bent over is totally not awesome."

Germany could tell from the expressions of the avatars that his brother had deployed his most vicious grin. The pleasant sight of almost the entire world intimidated by his brother went a long way to dispel the tight knot in his stomach that rose with the memory of being held back by America while China, Russia, and England... And France, although _he_ had been rather more gentle than the other three... while they'd beaten his brother into submission. Or rather, tried to. Prussia did _not_ submit. Ever.

Germany forced the thought away. It was one thing to know he'd been lucky that the first war had ended with a negotiated treaty, ensuring that none of the 'traditional' war-ending activities happened. The second war, though... Prussia goading the Allies into putting all the blame on him meant that Prussia had suffered the worst of the consequences. Being forced to watch while the Allies subdued – brutally – then raped – equally brutally – his brother was something Germany tried to forget.

"What I'm talking about is blaming _us_ for what some sick fuck of a boss does," Prussia continued. "Times have changed, children." He lowered his voice. "These days a boss needs _maybe_ five percent of the population to control a nation, so long as he's got them in the right place. Are any of you gonna tell me you don't have that many arseholes in your lands, hm?"

Germany doubted anyone would be that stupid. Not with Prussia in full force as he hadn't been in years. Hell, Prussia hadn't been like this since Frederick the Great.

His brother didn't give anyone time to argue. "Control the military. Control the police. Control the secret police." He raised a finger on his left hand for each item, as though counting them off. "Control the media. Do that and you control the nation." Prussia's fierce glare had even Russia trying to avoid eye contact. "It's time you fuckers took the time to find out if we know what the bosses are doing in our names. If we do know, are we trying to fight it or are we being threatened or abused by the bosses." Another glare, this one if anything more poisonous than the last.

Germany was sure the polish on the table would start steaming any time, there was so much acid dripping from his brother's voice.

"If anyone thinks I'm lying," Prussia added, only slightly calmer, "My brother has the records. Don't read them on a full stomach."

That, Germany knew, was the understatement of the century. Anything capable of sending England – and England in a fit of British Empire pissiness at that – racing for somewhere to vomit was dire. Germany wasn't ashamed to admit he'd been sick several times while he read those records. After taking several years to build up the courage to read them.

It was inevitable that the shock of Prussia's return would wear off, and predictable that one of the first to recover would be one of the Italies, neither of whom was known for being serious or thoughtful. Unfortunately, the Italy who recovered first wasn't bubbly and cheerful Italy Veniciano but his older brother Italy Romano – whose verbal tics included spraying foul language and insults whenever something unsettled him. Which was most of the time.

Even knowing he couldn't help himself didn't make Italy Romano any easier to endure. Hell, even knowing that the older of the Italies didn't ever _intend_ to insult people – most of the time, anyway – wasn't enough to protect him when his mouth erupted like Mount Etna.

Of course, what emerged this time was possibly the worst thing he could have said. Romano was... talented that way.

"Don't you come playing for sympathy, Nazi basta-" The insult ended in a terrified squeak.

Germany blinked. He hadn't seen his brother move, but now Prussia crouched on the table in front of Romano, his sword – the one from his Kingdom of Prussia days – in his left hand. The point rested in the hollow of Romano's throat, blood welling up in a slow scarlet stream. Prussia's grip, the steadiness of the sword, told Germany that his brother had stopped the weapon precisely where he chose: drawing blood and making sure he had Romano's attention without doing any real damage. Yet. Real damage was unquestionably a possibility in the near future.

Spain started to rise, only to freeze when Prussia snarled, "You pull that fucking battle ax on me and you will _lose_ that arm."

Nobody moved. Nobody dared. Not with Prussia poised centimeters shy of skewering Italy Romano. But when he spoke there wasn't a hint of any of that in his voice. "Point of order," he said, horribly calm. "My brother and I were _never_ Nazis. I lied at the trial." His sword didn't move. At all.

Germany could tell who hadn't figured out where Prussia's loyalties hadn't been – despite the abundance of evidence all over Prussia's body, the evidence of the identification number tattooed on his arm. That array of blank, shocked faces said the owners hadn't put what was right in front of them together into any kind of conclusion. Germany had to suppress an entirely inappropriate desire to giggle.

Romano's mouth dropped open, but all that came out was another squeak.

"Need I remind you that my brother is _younger_ than America," Prussia added in a tone that did all the right things to be gentle and entirely failed to achieve it. The unwavering sword may have had a little to do with the effect. A little. "You lot are always riding America's arse for being naive: didn't it ever occur to you that my brother might not be _quite_ as cynical as me?"

While Germany didn't exactly enjoy being called naive, it was nice to see the shocked and faintly guilty expressions of the older avatars.

Prussia continued speaking as though he was doing nothing out of the ordinary, as though nothing he said was at all unusual. "I lied so the fucking Allies would get the blood they wanted out of _my_ hide, not my brother's." His sword didn't waver by so much as a single millimeter.

Italy Romano was going cross-eyed staring up that blade, but he didn't try to push his chair back. Germany supposed the man realized Prussia was faster and _would_ skewer him if he tried to escape. That or he recognized that Prussia could have driven the blade through his neck and chose not to. Possibly both.

"So. You are going to apologize to me and my brother, Italy Romano."

Germany didn't have to see Prussia's smile to know it was a horrible thing, promising much worse than death if he didn't get what he demanded.

"Then we will forget about your little misunderstanding." The soft tone carried enough malice to kill.

Romano had to try several times before he stammered out, "S...s...sorry!"

Prussia rose to his feet, all predatory grace as he stood on the table, raised his sword with a slow, sensual motion. He brought the point to his lips, licked drying blood from steel as though he was making love to the weapon.

Romano wasn't the only one to shudder. Even though Germany had expected his brother to do something like this, he had to suppress his own desire to shiver: it was one thing to know Prussia was a bloodthirsty son of a bitch, another entirely to see the man showing his bloodied sword more intimacy than he ever showed any person.

With another flurry of movement too fast for the eye to follow, Prussia returned to stand beside his brother, his sword back wherever he kept it. Despite the scars, despite the raw, oozing wounds on his back, he was _magnificent_, all sculpted muscle in perfect proportion, a work of art in marble and carmine. And still playing the other avatars with the skill of a master. Germany suspected most were more stunned that it was _Prussia_ manipulating their reactions this way than by what he was doing. Prussia was supposed to be coarse, rough, crude, a buffoon with an ego bigger than a house. He wasn't supposed to know his fellow avatars well enough to goad them into the reactions he wanted. "Proposition two. No avatar shall be penalized for the actions of their nation unless they are provably in support of said actions." Prussia said smoothly. "Vote time, children. All in favor?"

All the avatars stuck with abusive bosses were quick to raise their hands. Not even Russia hesitated.

Germany allowed himself a small smile when he reported the results. "Proposition two passed unanimously."

Prussia's grin did things to his stomach that shouldn't be legal – and probably weren't, them being nominally brothers. Not that he had _any_ intention of following up on that unsettled sensation: the night they'd... unofficially reunified and consummated their 'marriage' as the two avatars of Germany wasn't something he _ever_ wanted to repeat. His brother hadn't been exaggerating about the act of sex being part of war for him.

It took Germany several days to heal – and his brother had been _holding back_. No, that was not going to be repeated. Ever.

"Last item," Prussia said with a grin that made some of the weaker avatars shift uncomfortably. "If you don't screw up here, you'll be mostly free of me for the rest of the meeting."

England winced, and Germany suppressed a smirk. Despite the uncomfortable memories Prussia had roused, this was the best World Council meeting he'd ever been to. He could watch his brother torment the others forever. Hell, he'd take all the uncomfortable and outright hellish memories and relive them just to make this last longer.

"All those blank faces tell me you didn't bother to read the agenda my brother so kindly provided." The sarcasm in that comment should have drawn blood. "So I'll spell it out for – yes, Canada?"

The young avatar – he looked so much like his brother America it took Germany a moment to realize this _was_ Canada – looked startled. "You noticed me?"

Germany hadn't even seen him until his brother mentioned him.

"I'm _Prussia_," was the dry reply. "The army with a country, etcetera etcetera ad nauseam." His tone was no more than brusque. "Of course I noticed you, kid. Never forget an ally. Or an enemy, come to that." A quick grin. "What did you want?"

Canada swallowed. "I want to second the proposal." He spoke softly, but his voice was steady, determined.

Prussia held the younger avatar's gaze for a long moment before he said softly, "Thank you. You honor me."

Canada's wide-eyed reaction – and damn near hero-worship, which was just wrong – told Germany his brother had deployed one of his rare genuine smiles with that simple statement. For that matter, the avatars sitting nearest Canada all had a certain wistful, appraising look, the kind of thing that came with wondering what it would take to get that expression turned on them.

Prussia on a charm offensive was possibly _more_ fearsome than his direct actions, not least because his target was a lot less likely to realize they were prey.

As Germany knew, his brother wasn't that concerned about the sex of his targets, either. If he was attracted he pursued until he either conquered or was defeated soundly enough he didn't consider it worth continuing the chase. Germany couldn't recall the last time the latter had happened, but he _was_ certain of one thing. It was always conquest with Prussia. Always.

"I appreciate that more than you know, Canada." Prussia turned to Germany. And grinned. "Proposition three, seconded Canada. That the former Old Prussia, Teutonic Knights, former Duchy of Prussia, former Royal Prussia, former Kingdom of Prussia, former Free Republic of Prussia, former State of Prussia within the Third Reich, and former East Germany be recognized as co-equal avatar of the _Bundesrepublik Deutschland_ as outlined in appendix nineteen ninety dash twelve point oh one – of which you have a copy delivered with your agenda. Those in -"

"Now just a bloody minute," England demanded, rising to his feet and shaking a finger in Prussia's direction. "You can't just _share_ the country."

Germany didn't need to look to know his brother had raised a single white eyebrow. "Really? I don't see anyone claiming that Italy Veniciano and Italy Romano can't share."

"That's different. It's Italy, not the bloody warmonger of -"

"Ah." Something in Prussia's tone stopped England mid-rant. "You refer I presume to the two wars my brother and I_ didn't start_ and fought only because it was our duty to our people." He bent in a mockery of a bow. "It doesn't matter anyway. We've both been Germany since the nation was founded. You can formally recognize me or not, but it won't change anything."

Germany couldn't suppress a smirk this time. Not with most of the avatars diving for their copy of the agenda and appendices.

Italy Veniciano was more direct. He bounced over to Prussia. "I can second too, right? Because I'm glad. Are you and Germany really married?"

Prussia chuckled and ruffled the shorter man's hair – carefully avoiding that one stray curl that acted as an erogenous zone. "Of course you can second, Italy Veniciano. And yes, we are married."

"Married, married, or merely the political variety?" France, of course. Whether he and his brother were lovers or not _would_ be the self-styled nation of love's first concern.

"Political," Prussia said in a voice so dry it made deserts look like oceans. "I'm a vicious warmonger, remember, not a sick fuck."

Fortunately for Germany's self-control, Italy Veniciano chose that moment to hug him. It was a lot easier to remain expressionless in the face of an excitable Italian than when watching his brother terrorize the World Council.

A single pair of hands applauded, slowly.

Germany turned to the sound. He wasn't all that surprised to see Russia clapping, his patented creepy smile turned up to all-out evil.

"_Very_ well played, East. You and your brother should become-"

"Russia." Prussia didn't raise his voice, but he cut across every other sound in the room. "I'm grateful for your care after the dissolution, and I'll still bring you sunflowers when I can, but the day I become one with you is the day I _colonize_ you. Do I make myself clear?"

Russia's death grip on his scarf, his wide eyes, and the fact that he'd gone almost as pale as Prussia himself was answer enough before the big avatar nodded frantically.

Not that Germany blamed him for his shock. Colonization of an adult avatar was even more brutal than the usual aftermath of war, and lacked even the minimal considerations that went with what Prussia called the 'victory gang bang'. The closest human analogy was slavery – but without the owner's concern for their slave's welfare. An adult colony had no monetary value. No value at all beyond whatever amusement they could provide their master. Old Rome was the last avatar who'd colonized adults. England, France, and Spain had stuck to either outright conquest or finding child avatars and adopting them.

"For fuck's sake, wanker, that's _exactly_ why you can't be trusted with power," England snarled.

Prussia only snickered. "That's all you know, eyebrows." He shrugged. "I merely stated the circumstances under which I'd become one with Russia. I didn't express a desire for a union."

"You expect us to accept that?" England was well on the way to an outbreak of British Empire - so much so Germany was mildly surprised he hadn't flipped already.

"You're distraught, England," Prussia said in a gentle tone. "Bad memories?"

France wasn't the only avatar to stifle a snicker in the face of a fierce British Empire glare.

"Shall we get on with this?" Prussia continued.

"I'm not -"

"_Shut up_." That was Prussia's command voice: it hit the hind brain and _demanded_ obedience.

England's mouth snapped shut and he fell into his seat.

Before he could recover, Prussia called for the vote.

The motion passed by a narrow margin. Germany wasn't surprised that all the major Allied powers voted against: they no doubt feared what a unified Germany with _Prussia_ in charge would do. He nodded to his brother once he was done tallying the votes.

"That ends this session," Prussia said cheerfully. "Try to behave for my awesome little brother." Then, in a softer voice to Germany, "Help me get bandaged up, brother?"

He nodded. "Of course."

"I'll help," Canada said softly, ignoring the near-stampede for the door. "It must be difficult."

Prussia only shrugged. "I'm used to it, kid. I was changing them on my own most of the time I was East."

#

With Canada's help, the time-consuming task of dressing Prussia's wounds passed much more quickly. The young avatar's dry sense of humor helped, as did a cynical outlook to match Prussia himself. "By the way, Prussia," Canada said as Prussia buttoned his shirt. "Australia, New Zealand and I have a little bet on how long it's going to take America and England to realize you're the German military. Are you interested in joining?"

Prussia snickered. "Damn right I am. So who's betting on what?" He pulled on his coat.

"Australia's got a thousand – we're using his currency, since he's banker – on it slipping out in a meeting and shocking hell out of both of them. Zea has five hundred on England having to explain to America and another five on Veniciano letting it slip." Canada grinned. "I'm putting two thousand on both of them having to be told – and another five hundred on Papa not telling them."

Prussia's scarlet eyes gleamed. "He knows then?"

"Oh, yes." Canada laughed softly. "Papa always reads the agendas and other documents. He just pretends he doesn't. Oh, and he said to tell you he's sorry for voting against recognizing you, but his people and boss are still terrified."

Prussia just nodded. "I figured as much." He fastened the last button. "I'll put five hundred on them not finding out for at least five years."

"Deal." Canada's smile made Germany wonder how anyone could forget the young avatar. He might be quiet and non-aggressive – normally a guarantee of obscurity in the boisterous community of avatars – but there was a hard, cold strength under that soft demeanor.

They returned to the conference room together, Canada ambling over to his usual seat, where he turned and murmured something to Australia and New Zealand. Both southern avatars grinned and gave Prussia a thumbs up signal.

Prussia waved in their direction.

Things settled down after that – at least, as much as these events ever did – but before Germany could suggest moving on to the next item in the agenda, Hungary rose to glare at Prussia. "You lied! You let me – let us think you were _dead_." She stalked towards him, frying pan ready.

Prussia didn't flinch. "Yeah, I lied. I couldn't bring down the fucking Soviets unless I did it from the inside."

She froze. Her frying pan quivered in her grip. "_What_?"

Russia was on his feet. "What?" His roar almost drowned out Hungary's demand.

"Ach, don't get your jockstrap in a twist." Prussia waggled his left hand. "It got you both a better class of boss, didn't it?"

"That is not the point," Russia growled at the same time as Hungary snapped, "You _lied_ to me!"

"Calm down!" Prussia's battlefield command voice could cut through the roar of heavy artillery and the screams of dying men and horses. The World Council didn't have a chance.

Germany had to fight the visceral reaction to that voice, and he'd grown up with it. It hit somewhere around the base of the spine and _demanded_ he leap to attention, _now_. That wasn't the only effect - every female avatar had a certain glazed look that could, in the right light, be mistaken for extreme patriotism. Of the males, the younger avatars were all sitting straight and at attention – and America appeared to be lowering his right hand from an instinct-driven salute.

Most of the older avatars had straightened, too, and were cautiously relaxing into their normal postures – while trying to look like they hadn't automatically snapped to attention when they'd heard that voice. That tone.

Germany carefully did _not_ smirk. He wanted to. Dear God, how he wanted to.

Prussia appeared oblivious to the impact – not that he was. Germany would guarantee his brother knew precisely who had reacted and how. "Russia, we can fight over this later. Hungary." His tone softened. "You can hit me with that fucking frying pan if you want. I won't try to stop you." He spread his hands and entirely failed to look contrite. "I deserve it."

Russia blinked, apparently unable to process being ignored, dismissed as irrelevant. He'd have to get used to it: in the past year Germany had realized that Prussia respected the big man - albeit a very cautious respect, the kind you'd give a large controlled explosion - but he didn't _fear_ him. At all.

Hungary stepped forward, her green eyes blazing. "You insufferable, arrogant, self-centered _prick_!" The pan swung, with enough force to kill a human, but there was no sound of impact, no Prussia toppling, and suddenly the pan was gone and Hungary wrapped her arms around Prussia's neck and was sobbing – _sobbing_ – into his coat. "I thought... I thought I'd lost... forever..."

When Prussia blushed it was spectacular against his pale skin. The dark red flush creeping up his face and back to his ears stood out like blood on fresh snow. "C'mon," he muttered. "Let's grab some beer and you can beat me for it in private. Not like there's much we're needed for here right now."

Germany gave his brother a slight nod, confirmation that he was free to leave – with Hungary if she chose to join him.

She pulled away from Prussia for long enough to wipe her eyes with her sleeve, then she took Prussia's hand and stalked from the room with her victim following, a sheepish grin on his face. But just before the door closed, he looked back and gave a thumbs up with his free hand.

Germany ignored France's chortling. Prussia would not have sex with Hungary, although the two of them might well agree to pretend that they'd done it. If Hungary didn't already know why Prussia was effectively celibate outside the battlefield, she would before long. What she did with the knowledge was her business.

With a small sigh, Germany turned his attention to the next item on the agenda, something about Iraq and Kuwait that America was all wrought up about. It had been argued twice already, and gone nowhere, so it wasn't likely to go anywhere now. Ah, well. He could bask in the memory of his brother's performance and let the meeting slide into chaos. Prussia was back: that was all he really cared about.


	6. Reunion

Prussia allowed Hungary to lead him to her hotel room. He didn't care what others thought of him, not nearly as much as he pretended. Of course, knowing that he could take any of his fellow avatars – even Russia – if he chose made their opinions irrelevant. He still had to force himself not to take control, not to dominate. Not to conquer.

She deserved that much from him.

Hell, she deserved so much more than that: she should be worshiped, adored, loved without reservation. And he couldn't do it no matter how dearly he wished otherwise. He was too much Prussia, too much himself for that to ever be possible.

Hungary flopped onto the bed once they were in the room with the door locked behind them. She clasped her hands behind her head, and her green eyes looked everywhere except at Prussia.

He perched on one of the chairs, awkward, ready to leap to his feet, but he didn't look away from her, didn't stop drinking in the sight. Maybe she wasn't quite so magnificent with this pensive, not-quite-sad expression, maybe it didn't make her eyes spark brightly the way they did when she was angry or joyous. She was still wonderful, and he could watch her for... well, not forever because he couldn't do that for anyone or anything, but for much longer than he'd normally tolerate anything so passive.

"It won't work, will it?" Hungary asked. "You and me, I mean."

Prussia sighed, ran his right hand through his hair. "God. I wish I could tell you we could make it work." He wanted to. Or wanted to bluster and taunt and slip into the way the two of them had interacted for centuries, him joking, daring her to retaliate, pushing until she gave in and took to him with whatever weapon she had at hand – lately it was usually that fucking frying pan. When that happened, they'd both forget whatever she'd been trying to worm out of him for a while, and he could relax a bit until their next encounter.

But Prussia did have standards, have ethics of a sort. After what he'd done to her by being 'East', he couldn't push her off, couldn't distract her. Not and look at himself in the mirror. Hungary had earned the sorry truth, no matter how uncomfortable revealing it might be.

She turned her head to study him, an expression he couldn't – or rather didn't want to – read on her face. "You're supposed to try to convince me."

He fought the desire to look away, to start another fight... to do anything but break her heart again. He'd only make things worse if he dodged the question. "There's not much I'd like more," he admitted. "But I can't. Shit, I can't even honestly tell you I'd try." That wasn't precisely true: he _would_ try. But he'd fail. He already knew that. "I'd hurt you, and you don't deserve that."

Hungary blinked, the hurt in her eyes shifting a little as bewilderment took hold. "You're not making sense, Prussia."

He sighed. Nothing was ever easy for him, was it? Well, no. _War_ in all its forms was easy. This personal shit, though, that was hard, and it hurt more than battlefield injuries. "Just... God. This isn't easy to explain." He ran both hands through his hair this time. It was going to be standing up in all directions at this rate. "Do you know how many times I've had sex outside the traditional end of war gang bang?" Might as well hit it directly and get it over with.

She stared at him, horror dawning on her face. "You kept count?" Of course she'd assume he was ridiculously promiscuous. He'd cultivated that reputation for years. He wished there was a way he could avoid shocking her, horrifying her.

There wasn't any humor in Prussia's bitter laugh. "_Once,_" he said. "And that was the 'marriage' part of reunification."

Hungary sat and turned to face him fully. There was shock in her green eyes, shock, sympathy, and no small amount of horror.

"I tried not to conquer him," he continued, forcing each word out past the endless layers of his personal defenses. "Tried not to hurt him. I _couldn't_ stop myself." He closed his eyes, remembering and wishing he could forget. "What I did was unforgivable." He shook his head. "Germany... forgave me anyway. Crazy kid." He sighed, leaned back into the chair. "Thing is, the 'awesome five meters' -" That was so sarcastic it should have burned something. " - gets interested just fine. But I can't get off without conquest." He managed a sour excuse for a smile. "Or at least imagining I'm conquering someone." He forced a shrug. "It's why I refused to be personally involved in any wars against you. And why I was as gentle with Austria as I was." This being open, being vulnerable sucked. He had to struggle to stay this way, to not revert to his usual games, usual defenses.

That last comment got the reaction he'd expected. "Gentle! You..." Hungary paused, swallowed hard. "You're saying that _was_ gentle, for you?" Her voice wasn't steady.

Prussia didn't look at her. Stupid of him, maybe, but he didn't want to see her condemnation, her disgust. "Yes." It sounded harsh, even to him. "Get France, or Poland, or Lithuania drunk enough one day. They might tell you." Another forced shrug. "They might go homicidal or catatonic, too. I've never been _nice_." Which, of course, entirely failed to encompass the things he had done in the heat of conquest. The lust for blood, for control that followed a battle.

He heard her swallow, pull in a shaky breath. "Why, Prussia?"

She wasn't asking why she'd get that kind of response from his former conquests – former conquerors, too. He could tell that much without looking at her. "Why do I do it?"

"Yes."

Prussia stood, took the few steps to the window and stayed there, staring out at nothing with his hands clasped behind his back. "It's what I am. Why I exist. I was created to fight. To make war." Bitter, bitter laughter. "Everything goes through that filter, Hungary. _Everything_." More not-laughter. "I've got to be the only living creature who evaluates the strategic importance of taking a piss."

Possibly the worst of it was that he wasn't exaggerating. He'd tried more times than he could count to be less warlike, more peaceful. All that happened was he turned to less violent means of war, to the dirty side of diplomacy, to double-dealing and seeding revolt in his targets - and less savory methods than those. Battle was cleaner: you know where you stood and who you stood against. Knew what winning meant.

Hungary's voice, softer than usual, hesitant. "Was it always like that?"

He nodded once. "As far back as I can remember." Which was well over a thousand years at this point, not that he'd counted. Or cared.

"Could you... you know..." She sounded as though she feared to finish the question.

Which was enough to tell Prussia what she was asking. He had to struggle to keep from snarling at her for even thinking about it, control his tone so much that even though he spoke lightly there was a strained tremor in his voice when he said, "Lose?"

When Hungary made a sound that was probably an affirmative, he said, "Never." Hell, he'd tried _that_, too. He couldn't let himself lose, not even stupid games. To do that, he had to redefine them somehow, convince himself that he was actually winning in some odd metaphysical sense. A battle, or sex? There wasn't a chance. "Fuck, you know what Austria had to do to take victor's prize from me, and I was _trying_ not to be too difficult for him because he's yours."

That comment earned him a sharp intake of breath.

Prussia laughed, the hissing, snickering taunt of a laugh he used to torment just about everyone. "Ask England what I did to Big Ben when he and the rest of the Allies tried to claim victor's prize. Or ask Russia about _his_ vital regions." This time the hissing laughter was more like an evil giggle. "They had me in shackles that would hold a fucking elephant, they'd beaten me half senseless, and I still damn near bit them off – and if I had bit them off, I swear to you I'd have swallowed." More bitter laughter. "They wound up with Russia sitting on me and my fucking jaw wired open before they could do me safely." He forced the vicious amusement back. "Just _don't_ mention that fact to my brother. Fuckers made him watch."

"You sound like you... almost enjoyed that."

Prussia could hear the fear in her voice, and a small part of him welcomed it. Fear meant Hungary would keep her distance and he wouldn't be tempted to fight her for real. Letting her beat him with that frying pan was a small price to pay – he just had to make sure that he _never_ thought of the damn thing as a real weapon, never thought of her actions as anything other than friendly teasing.

"In a sense, I did," he admitted. Another evil little giggle. "It was a fucking blast to know I could still scare shit out of them, even chained down and fucking helpless." No matter how wrong he knew that was, he couldn't stop himself enjoying the knowledge - hell, fucking glorying in it. Still... "I'm a sick little fuck, aren't I, Hungary?"

She didn't speak for a while, and when she did, it wasn't anything he'd have expected. "Elizaveta."

He turned to face her, not believing what she'd said. "What?"

Instead of the disgust or horror he'd expected he saw sympathy, sorrow. No pity, though. He was thankful for that: he didn't think he could have endured pity.

"My name is Elizaveta." Her lips curled in something that wasn't really a smile.

_Fuck_. Prussia's hands clenched into his pants. He forced them to open. Of all the possible outcomes of this little soul-searching session, he'd never expected permission to use Hungary's _name_. The only avatar he allowed that much intimacy was his brother – and Germany was until now the only one who'd ever given _him_ that right. "Gilbert." It was the only thing he could reasonably say in reply.

She studied him for a moment. "It suits you."

God, what was he supposed to say to that? There was nowhere this awkward conversation could go without getting into places that would end with her broken and hurt in ways he absolutely didn't want. He'd resisted the temptation to fantasize about her for years, choosing others – people he hated, mostly – to be the victims of his onanistic conquests.

Because he'd tried so many times to jerk off to something that wasn't about breaking someone, to something _normal_. It never worked, ever. No matter how he tried the mental images twisted and he wound up with yet another cascade of horrors in his mind. And worse, enjoying them. Glorying in them. Like he'd taken such glee in the reactions of the other avatars when he licked Italy Romano's blood from his sword.

He hadn't even planned that: it was just something he couldn't resist. Blood on his sword from a defeated enemy... Almost as satisfying as topping at the victory salute.

He swallowed. Thoughts like that weren't a good idea right now. "Thanks," he said finally. "It's not going to change anything, you know."

Hungary nodded. "I think I might have worked that out," she said in a dry voice.

"Good." He didn't look at her. Couldn't. "Should have been English, back in the chivalry days." He couldn't keep bitterness out of his voice either, not that he was trying too hard. Mostly he was trying not to let all his years of defensive posturing kick in, trying to stay honest because Hungary deserved that much at least. "I could fight for you, carry your favor, and never have to fear what would have happened if things went further than that."

She smiled. "The knight in shining armor," she murmured. "Yes. You'd have done that very well. Rescued the maiden and delivered her unharmed to her family. Won tournament after tournament." A sigh, so soft he hardly heard it. "It's a beautiful dream."

But only ever a dream, never something that could be real. He was too old, too evil and twisted to change that much. And in his deepest heart, he wasn't sure he really loved her, because if he did he'd be able to change for her wouldn't he?

He forced a wry excuse for a smile. "It is." Shrugged. "Kind of a pity, really. Dreams like that can be cruel the way they blind you to how things really are." And while reality could be many, many things, it was never kind or generous.

Now Hungary's eyes grew very bright, and she blinked a few times, ran her sleeve over her eyes. "Yes. They can."

"Besides, while I don't think the World Council would let you marry Austria again, they'd probably look sideways if you and he got back together... informally, you know?" It was hard, saying that lightly, as if he wasn't stabbing his own heart with every word. Harder than anything else he'd admitted to her, and none of it was anything he wanted to repeat. To anyone, even his brother.

She sighed. "Prussia..." Wiped her eyes again. "Austria and I... We never loved. We were... are... friends. Nothing more."

He raised an eyebrow.

Being who she was and tougher than many men, Hungary didn't blush. "Friends with benefits, maybe. But I never loved him, and he loves his music more than he can love anyone." She shrugged. "It was always you." A smile, soft and wistful. "You were my first friend, Pru- Gilbert. We played together as children, fought together when we got a bit older." The smile broadened. "You never once looked down on me when you found out I was a girl – when _I_ found out I was a girl."

He couldn't help chuckling. "Well, you were still more of a man than a good many who had balls and a dick."

Hungary's laughter erupted in glorious peals, and she laughed until Prussia was grinning a bit sheepishly, not entirely sure why what he'd said was so funny, but happy that she was laughing. It was better than tears, better than anger. _Much_ better than that wistful sorrow that made her eyes look dull and tarnished somehow.

Finally, Hungary calmed a little. "Oh, Prussia. I adore the way you just say what you think and to Hell with anyone's opinion."

He shrugged, and changed the subject. It was past time to talk about something other than him. Something that didn't involve personal shit like emotions. "Why did you start wearing dresses and stuff, anyway?"

He didn't expect her to blush, much less go a deep, dark red and look away from him. "I wanted you to want to marry me."

Well. _That_ was the wrong thing to ask to get away from all the feely shit. Prussia swallowed. "Fuck. Hungary... I never wanted to hurt you, you know that right? Never." Part of him ached to take the few steps that separated them and hold her, comfort her. The saner part of him held him in place, made those few steps an unbreachable chasm. If he touched, he'd conquer, and that would be unforgivable. He really needed this little session to move to something safe. Something they could laugh about without hitting these land mines.

"I know." Hungary shook her head, brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. She must be looking for something safe to talk about, too, because she switched subject. "Do you still go to confession?"

He nodded, and didn't smirk. "I do. As often as I can, actually." He allowed a slight twist of his lips. "This Pope is a smart one. I like him."

"Which one of us do you think will disturb him more?" That was almost - _almost_ - mischievous.

He couldn't stop himself snickering, though when he spoke there was respect, even admiration, in his voice. "Actually, John Paul is pretty much unshockable – or he does a good impression of it. He's also got a _nasty_ turn of mind when it comes to penance. No pro forma Hail Marys for him – he'll set something he knows I won't like so it really _is_ a penance. So I'll _think_ about whatever the fuck I did wrong this time."

Hungary giggled. "I'll keep that in mind. I've been meaning to go, but after so long not allowed..."

Prussia nodded. "Yeah. The first time back wasn't easy for me, either." He shrugged. "You get out of the habit and it's damn hard to go back. Gets harder the longer you wait, too." He gave her a wry smile. "I had to damn near push myself out the door."

"Do you still have..."

"The rosary you gave me?" This time his smile was genuine. "Yes." A gesture and he held it, the polished beads swinging gently in his hand.

"You've taken good care of it."

He grinned. "You'd hit me with that frying pan if I didn't." That wasn't the only reason, of course. Just the safest one. She'd given him this rosary when his had been shattered in one of the battles where he'd been defending her lands. As the Teutonic Knights, his most important possessions were his sword and his rosary: the gift was far more important than it would seem on the surface.

The beads slid through his fingers, the significance of each engraved in his soul. They weren't in the same arrangement as a modern rosary, but that didn't matter to him. He knew them, knew the tiny nicks and cracks that came with centuries of use.

Hungary sighed. "You're impossible."

Another grin. "I know." And another. "So. What do we let the others think?" That was a safe topic, mostly. Once the two of them decided on their story, he could play up to the other avatars, give them a show of Prussia the egotistical buffoon to help them forget the shock he'd given them earlier today.

She frowned, thoughtful. "I could add a few artistic bruises."

"They'd be very artistic, I'm sure," Prussia said with his hissing laughter. "They're going to be convinced we had sex no matter what we say – or how many times you hit me with that thing." Not that he was particularly keen on getting hit with the damn pan. The alternative was worse, though. If he tried too hard to evade it the battlefield instincts would kick in.

"You _could_ dodge." She folded her arms.

He laughed then, real laughter. "Yeah, I could, I guess. You enjoy it so much I don't want to spoil your fun." Which was, oddly enough, the simple unvarnished truth. That it also served as a distraction helped: he _wanted_ to move this little chat back to safe ground, to the joking and taunting he and Hungary had shared for so many years.

Better there than in the murky ground of love, and feelings.

Hungary smiled, a soft, gentle expression she rarely allowed herself. "You are the most exasperating brat of a man. Do you ever take anything seriously?"

"Never." It was an outrageous lie, and they both knew it. "The world might end if I did that."

"Brat!" Another soft smile took all the sting from the accusation. "How about I chase you back in with the frying pan? For taking liberties, of course." Those glorious eyes of hers twinkled with amusement.

Prussia smirked. "Perfect." He glanced at his watch. "Let's see... Give it another half hour, and we should disrupt things enough West will call an early lunch break so he can sneak a beer or three with painkillers for the headache he'll have by now."

Both Hungary's eyebrows rose. "Your brother drinking beer on duty? My, sharing the country with you is good for him."

Prussia snickered. "Helps get that stick out of his ass, you mean." He struck a mock-heroic pose. "It's just my awesomeness rubbing off." Good, things were getting safer. More normal.

"Ha!" She rose and prodded his chest. "It never rubbed off on _me_, you scoundrel."

He went down on one knee, a grinning parody of the ever-so-romantic pose. "That, my dear Elizaveta, is because you are so awesome that you don't need my help." With his red eyes the lost puppy look just didn't work for him, but he tried it anyway, purely to amuse her.

She cuffed him lightly. "Imp. Brat. And just what are we supposed to do for another half hour, hm? Since you've made it quite clear that sex is forever off the menu."

Prussia knew his eyes were gleaming, filled with mischief and fun. "I could recite dirty poetry." Never let it be said that he didn't appreciate art. He was just rather... selective about the art he chose to appreciate.

"For _half an hour_?"

"Oh, that's one of the shorter ones." That should get him a fun reaction.

It did. Hungary's eyes opened wide. "_Prussia_! Don't you dare!"

Of course, he started on one of the medieval lays – one that was quite accurately classed as a 'lay' with all the laying in it. And spent most of the next half hour trying not to laugh so much Hungary would catch up to him with that damn frying pan.

###


	7. Revelation

It started at a World Council meeting, although to Australia's way of thinking it _actually_ started back in the 70s when he'd been on an epic pub crawl with New Zealand. Even if nothing happened that time, he and Kiwi learned some things that they kept to themselves – besides, who'd believe them? - and while he could be easily distracted by animals, Australia wasn't stupid and he knew how to watch.

So he'd been watching when America looked down at his mobile – must have got a text from his boss. "Fuck. Israel again."

Watching as Prussia took notes for the meeting, quick and neat and not really paying attention to anything else or – and this was the crucial thing – guarding himself.

So Australia was the only one who saw the way Prussia's head snapped up in response to America's curse, the automatic reaction that they all had to someone calling them, only in Prussia's case his response to _that_ name was a secret he'd kept for years. Saw Prussia's body respond before his mind could restrain him. "What?"

Silence. America's curse had come in one of the periodic lulls that even a gathering as rowdy as the World Council had at times, and Prussia's response followed so quickly it was impossible to deny that it _was_ a response. Doubly so when Prussia's eyes opened wide and he let loose a volley of sizzling curses in every language he knew: which was quite the collection.

Australia had enough German immigrants to follow the German oaths, but the ones in the Prussian dialect lost him pretty quickly and he wasn't sure _what_ languages most of the rest used. Apart from the relative handful in English, anyway.

If there'd been any doubt what Prussia's reaction revealed, his curses eliminated that doubt.

America's mouth dropped open, and England fixed Prussia with a Godawful glare. "Is there something you'd like to tell us, wanker?" The question was silk over steel, the British Empire in all his rotten glory.

Prussia groaned, and ran his hands through his hair, making it even more of a mess than usual. "Fuck off, eyebrows."

"Or should that be _Israel_?" England's sneer was feared by just about everyone – mostly because when it came out there was a good chance of British Empire shitstorm to follow.

Australia didn't even look at New Zealand, just tossed his younger brother his wallet to collect on the bet they'd had ever since the 70s.

Prussia rose to his feet, glaring. "Fine, dickhead. Yes, I'm Israel. No, I didn't fucking do this on purpose, yes, it's fucking embarrassing, yes they fucking know, and no, I'm not making their fucking decisions for them. Is that what you wanted?"

England only raised a single eyebrow. "Really, _Israel_." Still sneering, too. This wasn't going to be pretty. "You can't be half of Germany as well as Israel."

Prussia folded his arms and didn't stop glaring. "That's a load of shit. I've been Germany since 1871. I was still Prussia – the nation – until 1933. And still Prussia as a state until you fuckers dissolved it and wiped it off the map. I was Germany, East Germany _and_ Israel for forty years. And I never stopped being the Teutonic Knights. Why would my multitasking be a problem now?"

Australia didn't grin although he wanted to. Prussia would kill him if he screwed up the man's big moment. Any of them. Besides, he kind of wanted to see where this would lead.

England was left with his mouth open. As usual when he couldn't think of a good response he went straight to insults. "Wanker. You know better."

"Assume I don't," Prussia said with a grin. "Enlighten us." He spread his hands in a grandiose gesture, playing to his audience.

England's green eyes glittered like emeralds. "It's the conflict of interest, you git. Most favored trading partner, and all that."

There was nothing resembling good humor in Prussia's smile. It was the kind of thing that belonged on an old man croc, complete with cold red eyes. "In that case you might as well shut up and swallow."

Australia was very thankful Prussia had never turned that tone on him. He'd faced England in his worst rages and Prussia in this mood was much worse. It was the edge to the man that said he'd like nothing better than to take that sword of his and run you through, then _twist_ the blade. And that he'd enjoy it.

The worst Australia had seen of England was bad-tempered and brutal, but never with that edge of wanting to kill, wanting to cause as much pain as possible. Maybe he'd been that way in his pirate days – Australia didn't know and didn't care to know. It had been... interesting enough being the colony used to house England's unwanted castoffs during his British Empire glory days.

Prussia wasn't finished, either. "You're not going to believe anything I say, or any evidence I present." It might have been possible for Prussia to get more contempt into his voice, but Australia didn't think it could be done without a lot of effort.

Russia prevented what could have been a truly epic Prussian rant. That he did so with the stunned question, "You've been bringing me sunflowers from _Israel_?" left Australia torn between laughter and using the table to beat himself. He covered his mouth with his hands in case laughing won.

"Well, duh." Prussia didn't even look that way. "There sure as hell wasn't anywhere in _your_ sphere of influence that I could get my hands on the things and I didn't have the means to pop into a Western florist and buy some."

Hopefully anyone who noticed would figure the choked sounds that leaked out from behind Australia's hands were shock, not the giggles he was desperately trying to stifle. Russia's dumbfounded expression was a thing of beauty, and much as he'd enjoyed his short fling with the big avatar, he really didn't need to be dealing with a pissed off Russia right now.

He wanted to watch all of Prussia's performance and savor it, because it wasn't that often that anyone left the whole bloody world in a state of open-mouthed shock. This was the second time in five years, and Prussia had done it last time, too.

Australia wondered what odds New Zealand would want on Prussia doing it again any time in the next five years. Probably Kiwi would tell him he wasn't taking book on a sure thing. He was a bastard like that.

Germany took advantage of the shocked silence that followed Prussia's comment to say, "Perhaps you could simply explain how you came to represent Israel, brother." The comment was so carefully neutral it strained at the edges.

Prussia shrugged. "I don't really know. It happened while I was hibernating after the Allies ripped my soul out." The grin he turned on England belonged on a dead shark. "It was there when I woke up, although it took a few years to get strong enough to push me to actually go there." He shrugged. "I guess with so many Holocaust survivors heading there and them already being mine, it kind of stuck."

Australia didn't get a chance to wonder how an avatar could adopt a nation that way: Iran's voice cut across the room, using the language all the avatars spoke amongst themselves but in his case harshly accented because he spoke it so rarely. "The Holocaust is a lie perpe-" His scream might have included words, but it probably didn't.

Iran's chair shot back on its wheels, crashed into the wall.

Australia wasn't sure how Prussia had launched himself across the table that fast, much less covered the distance, pulled a freaking sword from somewhere, and run it through Iran's body and the chair, all in less time than it took to blink. By the time Australia realized things were going south, Prussia stood over Iran, his left hand holding the sword in a firm grip while his right closed around the smaller man's neck.

Prussia's bird exploded, feathers scattering, then there was a massive _black_ eagle where the little yellow puffball had been. The eagle dived for Iran's eyes with a scream of raw fury that matched the rage pouring off Prussia.

Then Prussia twisted the sword, wringing a hoarse, breathless scream from Iran, who - stupid as denying the Holocaust's existence to the man who'd _become its avatar _might be - didn't deserve this.

Australia wasn't the only avatar on his feet, nor was he the fastest in the room. The OPEC group rushed to defend Iran, their oil-poor Middle-Eastern siblings scurrying to join them.

Prussia turned from Iran with a harsh laugh and no sanity in his face at all, another sword in his left hand – this one older and plainer, but no less sharp – and attacked with a shout of, "_Deus lo volt_!"

Shit. That was the battle-cry of the Teutonic Knights, and they hadn't been a military order in centuries. If Prussia was going Crusader on the Middle-Eastern avatars...

Syria exited the brawl at speed, backwards, and hit the wall with a crack Australia _hoped_ was the wall breaking. Because otherwise it was Syria breaking. An avatar in Arab clothing staggered back, hands over his eyes. Blood leaked out between his fingers.

England tried to get to Prussia, stumbled away clutching his side and the sword-shaped hole he'd gained for his sins.

Now the World Council erupted, France and America mother-henning England, Germany beside Russia both trying to get close enough to Prussia to haul him out of the fight that – despite the ridiculous odds against him – he seemed to be winning. In the time it took Australia to reach the edges of the fighting, Prussia sent Saudi Arabia and Libya flying, then disabled Yemen with a well-placed knee.

As Yemen doubled over, Prussia's sword swung in, blood trailing in a red stream that left the edge glinting. It would kill the smaller avatar.

Australia didn't even think about it. He wasn't sure how he did it that fast, but the room flickered between normal reality and the other realm, the one where human imagination took shape, then he stood damn near nose to nose with Prussia, his right hand around the northern avatar's wrist, holding him back, blocking that swing. Saving Yemen's life.

He didn't allow himself to think of that. There was no sanity in Prussia's face, in the wild grin that stretched his lips and bared blood-smeared teeth. No recognition in the wide, glaring red eyes. Nothing but raw fury driving a desperate need to kill.

He'd dealt with wild animals before, Australia reminded himself. Deadly ones, injured and lashing out at the nearest thing because it took their own pain away. This was just the same thing in human shape. He needed to do what he did with the animals.

First, distract. Get Prussia out of this madness.

Other avatars kept their personal weapons close to hand: Australia kept a stash of VB. Not that it was the _best_ beer in his nation, but it was pretty bloody good, and it was easier to get a slab of VB than of any of the micro brews he preferred. It was the work of a moment to have a coldie in his hand, condensation beading on the green can.

Prussia might not be sane right now, but he recognized beer – even an unfamiliar brand in an unopened can. He froze, his red eyes fastened on the can, and he didn't breathe when Australia lifted the tab with the thumb of his left hand. A shudder ran through Prussia's body at the hiss of pressurized air escaping, and when the scent reached him his right hand reached for the can.

"There ya go, mate," Australia said in the calm, soothing tone he used with frightened – or maddened – animals. He pressed the opened beer into Prussia's seeking hand, reached for another while the older avatar drank.

It was a bloody shame, seeing good beer treated that way. Prussia chugged it so fast he couldn't be tasting the liquid gold, and he let the can drop when he emptied it, reached for another.

Australia provided it without comment. He could hear movement around him, other avatars carefully retrieving the wounded and treating their injuries. Carefully, in case they caught Prussia's attention and got attacked.

It took four cans before the madness left Prussia's eyes and his bird shrank back to the little yellow puffball that Australia had thought was a harmless chick. Four cans before the northern avatar let his sword fall from his hand, before the mad red eyes opened wide and raw anguish flooded them. Before Prussia screamed, a wordless cry of guilt and horror.

He pulled _another_ bloody sword from thin air, this one so old and plain and sharp it was practically an archetype, and would have turned it on himself if Australia hadn't caught his arm.

"Ya don't want to do that, mate," Australia said in the same soothing tone. "C'mon. There's more beer in my room." More than that, his hotel room wasn't in front of the entire bloody world, and Prussia needed to break down before he could recover himself. Besides, Prussia didn't need to know that Australia's personal beer stash wasn't limited to four cans.

Prussia swallowed. He stared with wild eyes, then he shuddered, blinked a few times. The swords – even the one still impaling poor Iran – vanished. "Beer." The harsh croak was a command.

"Right." Australia used his grip on Prussia's left arm to turn the man and lead him from the conference room. "Beer." He pretended not to hear the sharp buzz of conversation that erupted as soon as he was through the door.

#

Fortunately for Australia's state of mind they didn't encounter any of the hotel staff in the short walk to his room. The unfortunates who worked at hotels regularly used for World Council meetings might be used to strange happenings, but an avatar liberally spattered with blood went beyond strange into "oh shit" and would lead to awkward conversations with the local police.

He didn't need that, and Prussia _really_ didn't need that.

Once he'd got the northern avatar into his room and made sure the door was locked, Australia opened the mini fridge. It was stacked full of VB. "Knock yerself out, mate."

Prussia blinked and grabbed a can.

Australia silently mourned the drinking session with Kiwi he wasn't going to get, and snagged himself a can. He'd have to nurse it: Prussia was going to tear through his supply like a starving dingo through road kill. _Better remind the PM when I get home that with Prussia back he needs to up the official beer allowance._ Once Prussia slowed down enough to _taste_ the beer, Australia would never be rid of him.

He'd nursed his can to maybe half-way down by the time Prussia started to slow down. With a dozen tins of Victoria Bitter in him, the Prussian was barely tipsy, but he grinned without it hitting his eyes – Australia wondered just how anguished those red eyes could get – and said, "Not bad, kid. Not bad at all," in a conversational voice that didn't hide the turmoil underneath.

Australia kept his reply light. "It's the best of the commercial brews," he said. "The micros are better, but you can't buy them in bulk."

Prussia nodded. "Makes sense. Harder to bring with you, too."

Now it was Australia's turn to grin. "Nah, mate. Ya just gotta know what t' tell 'em." He wasn't sure when he'd found out that a bright smile and a little of his most ancient heritage was quite enough for Customs officials to wave him through with a few words of welcome and a slightly confused look. If he bothered to go through official channels in the first place.

Prussia raised one white eyebrow. "Really?" There was a whole universe of skepticism in that single word.

Australia shrugged. "I never had any trouble visiting Russia in the seventies." Or anyplace else, for that matter.

"As I recall you weren't big on going through checkpoints, either," Prussia said with justified sarcasm.

"Still don't bother with the bloody things unless I'm with the boss." Australia took another sip, taking his time and letting the smooth taste of his beer flow over his tongue. "Hate flying. All cooped up with a bunch of other blokes and all their shit."

Prussia's hissing laughter wasn't meant to be unpleasant. It was something in the tone of hiss that told him. "Ja, ja..." The northern avatar waggled a hand. "Get a pilot's license, then."

"Got one." Australia shook his head slowly. "Freaks the humans, since it's been current since 1925." He sighed. "Bloody bureaucrats, couldn't find their arse with both hands and a map. It's not worth the fuss trying to get sense out of the bastards."

The answer came with a mad cackle. "Then _break_ them, kid. Wave it in their faces until they give up and do what you want."

Australia tilted his head to study the other man. "Why bother when I can just work around them?" He spread his hands. "What they don't know won't hurt them."

Prussia finished his latest can before he spoke. "I like your approach, kid. Wouldn't suit me, but whatever floats your boat."

Australia just smiled. "Ex-convict, mate. Stumping the overseers is built into the system."

Prussia's mouth twisted into something that wasn't a smile. "I get the feeling facing psychotic killers isn't part of that."

The topic had to happen somewhere, and this was as good a place as any. "I've got enough Nordic ancestry in my place to know a berserk fit when I see one," he said in as close to a conversational tone as he could get.

Prussia's bird cheeped an agreement.

Australia smiled and held out one finger. The little yellow puffball considered that, tilting its head before it flew over to land on the offered perch. "Awesome little bloke."

Prussia smiled softly. "Yeah, he is."

Australia gently rubbed the forefinger of his other hand against the bird's head. "He makes an awesome eagle, too."

The other man winced. "I try not to do that to him," he admitted and grabbed another can of beer. "It can take him hours to get his feathers clean after."

Saying that Prussia needed some cleanup as well was probably not the best thing to do, Australia decided. Aside from anything else, he didn't carry endless supplies of spare clothes, and nothing he had would fit the other man anyway. "Yeah, that'd be a bit of a pain in the arse."

Prussia stared at him for a long while before he finally shook his head. "You are crazy, you know that? Totally insane. First you come in and stop me killing anything else, then you bring me to your fucking room, and now you're making small talk? What gives?"

That was a bit more difficult to answer. Australia considered what he could say, then gave an inner shrug and told the simple truth. "I just did what had to be done."

He got another long stare, this even more appraising than the last. "Bullshit." Prussia's pointing finger was more like a stabbing implement. "Nobody else thought to do anything like what you did."

"Nobody else wrestles crocs for fun," Australia reminded the other man, and didn't add anything about his fling with Russia or the way for Russia that was foreplay. Crocodiles, bears, it didn't matter so long as there was the possibility of it killing one of them. That got Russia hotter than a Darwin summer, and Australia wasn't going to say _he_ didn't like it that way. Not when Russia had been one of the few he didn't have to hold back his strength for.

He'd had to hold back in other ways, but that was something else and didn't have anything to do with danger or Prussia – and danger and Prussia could arguably be considered one and the same.

"Shit! That's not what I meant you little fucker and you know it." Prussia's eyes took on a dangerous glint. "Fuck, I haven't lost control like that since the fucking Crusades, when I was wading through blood in Jerusalem." He shook his head. "And you step into the middle of it cool as shit and _offer me beer_?"

"It worked, didn't it?" Australia didn't say more than that. Better to let Prussia rant himself out and settle back on his own time than to try to push anything.

There was definitely an edge to the other man's voice, a light in his eyes that meant trouble coming at speed. "That's not the fucking point."

The last of the beer went down smooth and easy, and Australia smiled. "The point, mate, is that someone had to distract you to break you out of it. I knew what to do, and I was right there. So I did it. It's not a fucking soapie where it's all drama and shit."

Prussia sighed, and gulped down the rest of another can. That made it fifteen so far. He ran both hands through his hair, scattering flakes of dried blood over his shoulders. "Fine. You want to see it like that, you can." His eyes narrowed and his expression turned dangerous. "But your beer is the only thing you get to offer me, kid. I'll deal with the rest myself."

Right. So the adrenaline-based stiffie had kicked in – or rather, Prussia had noticed it. _Australia_ had been aware of the way Prussia's pants were tented for a while now, and trying not to make it really obvious that his Rock was upstanding and ready for inspection as it were. Jumping Prussia because risking his neck made him hot would be rude. And probably get him killed. Again. "Who said anything about offering?" He grinned. "Ya gotta catch me first."

Prussia stiffened. And stiffened. "Goddammit you little prick, I'll..." He swallowed, clenched his hands into his pants. "I don't _do_ 'sex', kid. I _conquer_."

Well, that explained quite a few things. Australia let it all click together before he opened his mouth. "So swear by your nations anything that happens is personal," he said flatly. "Me boss'd be right pissed if I suddenly became a Prussian colony." He wouldn't exactly be pleased either, but that was a different issue.

Prussia gaped at him for a moment before he said, "Are you fucking _insane_? Don't you know what I'll do to you?"

He grinned. "Like I said, ya gotta catch me first. Who knows, I might even win." He doubted it: he might be stronger than Prussia, but it wasn't by much, and the northern avatar was a lot faster, and had much more experience in this sort of thing. He would put up one hell of a fight, though. Australia could guarantee that. He unfocused for a bit, letting his oldest, most primal self through. "Listen, when is life at its most vibrant?"

Prussia blinked, apparently too stunned to respond.

Australia answered for him. "After disaster. After war. Even if you lose." He held Prussia's red eyes with his stare. "Everything seems to know that the dying is done and it's time to start recovering, rebuilding. Life, everywhere, gets stronger." Now Australia smiled, a slow, dark smile totally unlike his usual easygoing manner. "You know this. _War_."

Prussia's eyes opened as wide as they could and his mouth dropped open. He tried to speak, failed. Tried again and this time croaked out, "Life."

Australia nodded.

"Does England..."

"No. He's not first-generation. He can't see it." Australia shrugged.

Prussia blinked. Frowned. Then smiled with evil anticipation. "Who'd have thought the arse end of the world would hide one of the first generation," he said softly. "Very well." He straightened to a not-quite military attention, complete with flagpole straining against his uniform trousers. "I swear that any outcomes from today's activities are purely between Gilbert Beilschmidt, and -"

"Jack Kirkland," Australia supplied.

" - Jack Kirkland, and have no bearing on the nations of Germany, Israel, or Australia, nor on the Order of Brothers of the German House of Saint Mary in Jerusalem." Prussia finished without hesitation.

"And I swear that any outcomes from today's activities are purely between Jack Kirkland and Gilbert Beilschmidt, and have no bearing on the nations of Australia, Germany, or Israel, nor on the Order of Brothers of the German House of Saint Mary in Jerusalem." Australia was relieved he got that last part out without any mishaps. "God, mate, that's a mouthful. No wonder they just called you the Teutonic Knights."

Prussia laughed, low and sensual. "Usually they called me worse than that," he said. "Especially after I defeated them." It was all the warning Australia got.

#

Australia leaned back into the embrace of the not-quite-comfortable hotel armchair and closed his eyes for a moment. That was... eventful. Exciting enough he'd taken aspirin when he'd fetched himself a beer. _After_ taking a quick shower and putting on clean clothes. The jeans and faded t-shirt weren't up to England's standards for these meetings, but his only business outfit hadn't survived the tussle. Two pills and another beer waited on the nightstand for when Prussia recovered from what appeared to be pleasure-induced shock.

Prussia _had_ won the chase and subsequent fight, and neither of them had been holding back. Australia was pretty sure his tally included cracked ribs as well as the bruises, and he'd already straightened his broken nose. It was healing fine: his land was big enough that few wounds lasted long even though he didn't have the kind of population America did.

The northern avatar hadn't been kidding about not doing 'sex', either. The only thing that kept what he'd done from being rape was that Australia had consented to anything Prussia chose to do before they started. It had still been pretty bloody brutal: when the high wore off he was going to _hurt_. Fun, though. With what he was, it was the sensation that mattered, and once it got intense enough pain and pleasure melded into something that partook of both, something Australia loved when he could get it. He truly didn't care who was on top, or whether it was the pleasure that was so intense it melted into pleasure-pain or the pain that built to pleasure-pain. Either way, he got the pure, wild sensation that took him from the usual concerns of everyday life to a realm where nothing mattered but the input of his heightened senses. To a place where he could simply _be_, where he wasn't Australia, or Jack Kirkland. He simply _was._

So, naturally, he'd figured on giving Prussia an unforgettable thank you gift, in the form of treating the northern avatar to the same sensation via pleasure. Given Prussia's turbulent history, he was undoubtedly familiar with pain, but Australia didn't think anyone had ever gone out of their way to make him _happy_.

Prussia hadn't expected to have the tables turned. Australia smirked a bit, remembering the pale avatar's shocked face when his hands had been secured by the cuffs he'd taken off Australia less than a minute before. The shock – and fast-building fury – hadn't lasted: first bewilderment when Australia caressed him then gradually Prussia had succumbed to pure, sensual pleasure. Small wonder the man still lay on the bed, not asleep but not far from it. He hadn't even noticed when Australia took the handcuffs off – Australia refused to speculate on just _why_ Prussia carried a set of handcuffs in his personal stash out of time and space – even though that happened a long time before Prussia's senses overloaded.

Possibly – Australia would have bet on it only Kiwi wouldn't take the bet – Prussia _never_ had anyone devote themselves to pleasing him like this. Never had anyone be a lover for him. Well, he'd consented – even if he hadn't believed it would happen – to anything _Australia _chose to do to or for him, so it was all good.

He hoped.

Memories rose: the way Russia had retreated to the cold depths of winter behind his eyes before he turned and walked away without a word. England, betrayal in every line of his body before he regained his self-control and summoned the biting sarcasm he was so known for. France, refusing to look at him, just telling him to leave and never come back.

God, all he wanted was to give his partners pleasure.

Prussia shuddered.

Australia bit his lip when he heard a stifled sob. He'd fucked it up again. Shit.

There was a long quiet, then Prussia said in a harsh voice, "Well, get it fucking over with."

"What?" Australia couldn't see any way that made sense.

If anything Prussia's response was even harsher. "You won, kid. Fucking gloat, damn you."

He blinked. Swallowed. "But... I wasn't... I didn't." He swallowed again. "I was trying to do you a favor," he said in a voice that sounded like he'd gone back to being a half-grown colony explaining his latest inadvertent misdeeds to an irate England. "I didn't mean to... whatever you think I did."

Prussia moved then, snake-fast, spinning as he twisted and rose to sit on the edge of the bed. "The fuck you didn't," he snarled. "You shattered fucking _centuries_ of defenses you prick! _No-one_ ever did that before." He sounded sour, bitter. "They just chained me down long enough to get it done, but you... _you_ have to go and fucking _break_ me."

Australia stared at the carpet, emotions he couldn't name knotting in his stomach. "Sorry." It wasn't much – wasn't nearly enough, but damn, did he have to screw up every time he tried to do something _nice_ for someone?

"Sorry." Prussia's voice could have cut through solid steel. "You seriously think that's enough?"

Of course it wasn't: even though he hadn't meant to hurt the other man, it was pretty bloody obvious he had, and there wasn't much he could do about it except apologize. "I know it's not," he said miserably. "I wanted... to do something for you. Not... you know..." Like that was going to clear anything up.

Silence. It seemed like forever before Prussia made an odd sound in the back of his throat. "You really don't get it, do you, kid?"

"Get what?" Beyond that he'd gone and turned something good into a bigger balls-up than a bull elephant on his back, anyway.

Prussia sighed. "Fuck." Took a long, slow breath in. Out. "Look, kid. _Australia_. The first time I was on the receiving end of the traditional victory gang bang? I was a couple hundred years old at that point, I guess, but I _looked_ maybe six."

That brought Australia's head up.

The northern avatar waved a hand. "I'm not unusual. France's first time, he looked about eight. England was barely past toddler, but he did old Rome some heavy damage in that war." Prussia shrugged. "See, it's _always_ been about conquest with us. The victory salute, it's partly claiming the territory of the loser, and partly letting out the emotional shit that builds up in a war so it doesn't fester." He shook his head. "Me, well... with what I am... I've _never_ been able to get off without imagining someone in the loser's place. Ever."

_Shit_. That meant he'd done more than just overload the other man. He'd completely shattered what Prussia thought of himself. And that was without thinking about the way the European avatars settled their differences, and started when they _children_. That was wrong in so many ways, it turned his stomach, and he didn't want to even have to think about it.

"Usually I imagine someone I hate." There wasn't anything pleasant about Prussia's smile. "Because, yeah, I don't do the fluffy shit, I don't do casual sex, and I sure as fuck don't do _making love_." He glared at Australia.

Who winced. And blurted out what was probably the worst thing he could say. "No one does except me." Whiny, too... Prussia was going to want to kill him after this.

Prussia stared at him for a moment. "The fuck? France? Spain?"

He shook his head. "Don't know about Spain, but France wouldn't look at me and told me never to come back." Australia hated how sulky and resentful he sounded but he couldn't stop himself.

Prussia's laughter was a shock. It started as a giggle breaking through the open-mouthed stare, and quickly grew to wild, almost hysterical laughter. "France... couldn't take it?" Prussia took a shaky breath. "France? The 'nation of love'? Oh, that's _rich_, kid. France, out-loved by a wild kid from the arse end of the world."

That made Australia blink with surprise. He hadn't thought of it that way.

Prussia sighed, then shook his head. "You kids," He gestured in a way that Australia guessed was meant to be meaningful, "You kids with your isolation and your huge landmass. God, even New Zealand is bigger than some of the European nations." He wagged his index finger in Australia's direction. "You act like you're human half the time, and you're not. _We're_ not. We can't be."

That did make a certain amount of sense. He'd known from the start he was different, the eternal child of the Dreaming who belonged to all the tribes and none of them, who could come and go as he pleased and charm any animal he chose. But the tribes, they'd had their wars, and their avatars never did that... although their avatars were mostly like he'd been, small children in shape despite their years, kids with old eyes... Australia shook his head. "Why can't our kind be lovers? We can be every bloody thing else." Damn, that sounded resentful. Again. All he'd wanted was... well, better not to think of that.

Prussia stood and buttoned his shirt, hiding the mass of bandages covering the wounds on his back, wounds that still festered fifty years after the end of the war. The Holocaust. "Fuck, kid. Think about it. Why would you _want_ to make yourself that vulnerable when whoever you're doing it with could be facing you across a battlefield in a few years? We don't get the choices humans do. Our bosses want war, we go to war."

Again, Prussia's words made sense, but... damn. It was such a bloody cold way to look at things. Australia closed his eyes for a moment, let his breath out on a long, slow sigh. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I wanted to do something nice for you. To say thank you."

He didn't expect the reaction he got. Prussia's mouth fell open again and he just stared for a moment before he shook his head. "I fucking _conquered_ you, kid. You don't _thank_ me for that."

Australia only shrugged. "It was still the best sex I've had. The most intense." He pointed to the nightstand. "The beer and aspirin are for you. I figure once the adrenaline and shit wears off you're going to feel the bruises I gave you."

Prussia blinked. He moved like a sleepwalker to take the beer, open the can and drink. To down the aspirin. Finally, he said, "Who else have you... done this with, besides France? And what did they do?"

He looked away, feeling his face heat up. "Russia. We had fun together until then. He walked out and hasn't spoken to me since." Australia couldn't stop himself sounding somewhere between sad and whiny.

"That would be... oh... early eighties, right?" Amusement sparked briefly in Prussia's voice: apparently Russia hadn't been exactly composed when he got home.

Australia didn't ask: only nodded and kept on with the humiliating admissions. If he stopped he wouldn't start again, and after what he'd accidentally done to Prussia, the other man deserved honesty if nothing else. "England got sarcastic -"

Prussia's cackle stopped anything else he'd planned to say. "England always gets sarcastic. It's the only thing he knows."

"Yeah, I know." You didn't grow up as someone's colony without learning a lot of things about them. "Kiwi doesn't mind, but he only lets me do it once every few decades. Says he's not strong enough for it." Australia sighed. "and America threatened to nuke me if I did it again."

"And none of them ever told you why." Prussia wasn't asking.

Australia just shook his head. There wasn't much point saying anything.

Prussia bent and retrieved his pants from the floor, pulled them on with a grimace for their blood-stained state. "Look, kid, this is how it went from my perspective. You – very kindly and fucking stupidly – offered to stand as proxy for the losers in the traditional victory salute. And if you hadn't I probably _would_ have gone after one of them. It's just how things work." He buttoned his trousers. "After that, you took your revenge – which also happens although usually not that soon after. You're strong, kid, I'll give you that."

Prussia's blood-spattered coat had wound up on the floor as well: he picked it up and shook it before pulling it on. "That's how most of us think. America too, even though I know for a fact he's never really taken victor's prize."

"But..." Australia couldn't think of a polite way of saying that he'd _seen_ what happened after the second war.

"He was faking it, kid." Prussia buttoned his coat while he spoke. "But don't tell my brother, okay? He's come to terms with what happened: he doesn't need to have the whole mess shoved in his face again." A quick grin, the wicked smirk that was all Prussia. "America did a damn good job of faking it. Fooled Russia and England. Course it helped that by then I wasn't in any condition to make much noise."

"Does it have to be like that?" Australia asked plaintively. "I mean, the whole conquest thing."

Prussia's snickering, hissing laughter wasn't really cruel. It didn't have the edge it got when he wanted to hurt. "For most of us, yeah. It does." He shrugged. "For me, that's all I've ever been able to do." A wry grin. "And no, I don't go making war so I can do the losers. It's the fighting I love, not the sex. The 'awesome five meters' -" Australia could almost hear the air quotes, " - doesn't wake up that often outside of fighting, anyway."

He considered that. Prussia was unquestionably a warrior from his head to his toenails, but the idea that the man wasn't anywhere near as sexually insatiable as he pretended... "How many know?"

The northern avatar looked away. "You. Germany. Hungary." The flat tone said clearly that the list would have been shorter without Australia's stupidity.

"And you let her beat hell out of you with that frying pan of hers?" He couldn't have stopped that question if he'd tried.

Prussia turned to glare at him. "You tell anyone I have to convince myself she's just playing games with me and I'll fucking kill you."

Australia spread his hands and did his best to look innocent - with his convict history, not an easy task. "I wasn't planning on telling anyone anything." Trying to look innocent while he wrapped his mind around the idea of Hungary's frying pan being a game wasn't something he could do.

"Good." That was a low growl that managed to be both dangerous and - _fuck_ - arousing.

"Shit." Australia sighed. "Look, lay off that will you? I don't need three stumps right now."

If nothing else, Prussia's raucous laughter successfully deflated Australia's growing lust. "God, kid. You're worse than fucking France."

"I bloody hope I'm better at it than he is," Australia retorted without thinking.

Prussia's derisive snort helped, too. Sort of. As long as Australia kept his objective to keeping the bat low.

"I'm not the person to ask." There wasn't anything remotely humorous in Prussia's grin. "The only times we've ever done it were the victory salutes."

Like there was anyone who'd be the right person to ask. "Right. Stupid thing to say." He let his shoulders slump. "I guess all that shit means there's not going to be a next time." He wasn't asking. He didn't need to, but he did need to confirm it. Because, well... Prussia was... War and Life could dance on the edge of a sword and both be the stronger for it, but they couldn't be more than that. Couldn't stay close. Everything Australia was would weaken Prussia, and everything _Prussia _was would conquer and destroy Australia. They'd break each other.

Prussia made a sour face. "There won't. Sorry, kid." Australia could tell the 'sorry' was more of a sop than anything Prussia really felt, but he appreciated it nonetheless. It was more than he'd got from anyone else.

"Look, don't feel bad about not figuring it out, okay?" Prussia had said often enough that he didn't do what he called "that emotional shit", but there was a kind of rough sympathy in his voice. "It's not like I advertise or anything."

Australia couldn't help snorting. "More like the opposite."

"Exactly." Prussia grinned at him, for real this time. "If everyone thinks I'll do anything with a pulse, they don't try to get dirt on me." He snickered. "And if they're all scared, so much the better."

"Less work for you." It was a principle Australia knew intimately.

He got a nod in reply. "And no awkward questions." Prussia shrugged. "Look, no hard feelings? Yeah, I was fucking mad, but once I figured you had no fucking idea..."

Australia found himself nodding. "No hard feelings, mate. Friends, if you want it." He managed a wry twist of a smile. Maybe not friends, exactly, but drinking mates might work.

Prussia returned the smile. "Even without the beer, I'd take the offer."

It was a bit of a risk, but Australia pretended to groan. "Oh, God. I'm never going to get rid of you, am I?" He stood, grimacing at thought of the lecture he was going to get from England about being improperly dressed. He'd probably get the same one from Germany, at that.

He got a laugh. "Never, kid!" then a friendly arm draped around his shoulder. "Come on. Let's go scandalize the rest of the world."

###


	8. Rubicon

Prussia was never quite sure how it happened, but he and Germany ended up sharing an office. Two offices to be exact, the one in the renovated Reichstag building that they used when parliament was in session, and the much more cozy room in their home.

Mostly, they worked in companionable silence punctuated by the sound of paper and pens, or – more often than not, lately – the click of keyboards as they typed. They didn't need to talk much: both knew the intricacies of running a country and once Prussia had caught up with the way a modern democracy worked, he'd settled in as though the years adding useless signatures to communist nonsense had never happened.

It helped that the military and police were his. He'd taken on foreign relations, too, after one of his brother's headaches left Germany unable to follow an abysmal piece of crap written by the Foreign Minister of the time. Not that either of them said anything about who was doing what: that was for the rest of the world to wonder about. It was all documented properly, and they all had access to the documents. If they didn't bother to read them, that was their fault.

Prussia found – somewhat to his surprise – that he enjoyed peacetime diplomacy. Not that he'd ever be anything other than a warrior at heart, but the challenge of appearing to be ever so proper and diplomatic and all that shit while carefully weakening one's rivals and strengthening ones own land – all for the greater good, of course – appealed to his intellect. The killing, the wars... There were always places going to hell, and if there were rumors about a pale deathly figure stalking the battlefields, well rumors happened, and you never knew what a man would see when he was fighting for his life.

He didn't enjoy the efforts of Foreign Affairs staffers who couldn't tell their arses from their heads with two attempts and a map. The current one seemed to be of the opinion that the European Union didn't need to do anything except exist to be awesome, and Prussia knew damn fucking well that true awesome was hard work. He'd been editing the latest proposal – with "helpful" commentary that would probably have the Chancellor wanting to know why he couldn't phrase these things more diplomatically (the answer he always gave was that he saved diplomacy for his enemies) – for the last two hours and still hadn't wrestled anything that made sense from the mess.

Everything changed.

Prussia's head snapped up and his body tensed. Somewhere, war had just become inevitable.

All his hair tried to stand on end, making his skin prickle and sending jolts of unfamiliar sensation through him. God, how long had it been since he'd been hit by this, a completely _new_ war, one he hadn't seen approaching, hadn't watched the tensions grow for so long it was almost boring when they finally got to the killing part? Forever, it seemed like, and the sense of war, the promise of violent death to come, enticed him like a lover's kiss.

He saved the wretched, useless policy document, flipped over to Google, ran a quick search for breaking news. His breath caught. "Fuck."

Germany looked up, frowning. "Brother?"

"Check the news. Any news." Prussia skimmed a few articles while he let his senses, the part of him that _was_ war, gather what he needed to know.

He heard the clicking from Germany's keyboard, felt rather than saw his brother shudder. "Dear God." Germany sounded as shaken as Prussia. "America..."

Prussia nodded. "I'm going over there. Someone needs to talk him down or there'll a thousand square kilometers of glowing glass where Mecca used to be." Not that Prussia would have _minded_ that outcome, being an old Crusader and all, but it wasn't something modern nations did, and above all, if America did that, it would shatter the kid in ways that... He wouldn't stop being America, but he just might lose his connection to his first, deepest link.

Because where Prussia was War and Australia was Life, America was Freedom.

Right now, with a cloud of toxic dust covering the wound to America's heart and footage spreading of idiots in the Middle East _celebrating_ the disaster – not that the stupid arses knew any better what with the lies they were fed by their equally stupid bosses – if someone didn't step in, America would lash out, and with his strength it wouldn't be a war. It would be slaughter, and before it ended the kid would turn on his own people. Prussia didn't need strategic expertise to see that.

Hell, it might still happen if America didn't strike the right balance between scaring the barbarians back to their caves and tents, and staying civilized. He'd come close enough to overstepping in the last world fuckup, and probably would have done if not for his nukes. Prussia had seen Russia's personal – and never shared with any of his bosses – estimates for America conquering Japan over land, and those _conservatively_ forecast close to a third of the Japanese population dying. Mostly from that fucked up idea that being beaten and surviving was shameful and the only answer was to off yourself, but still.

To Prussia's way of thinking there was nothing shameful about being beaten. _Giving up_ afterwards was shameful. You got back on your feet and figured out a way to rebuild yourself because if you gave up then you'd fade.

Germany's voice hauled him from his thoughts. "Be careful, brother. The creatures will be hungry."

Prussia nodded. "I'll take care."

#

He delayed only long enough to grab the gray duffel bag he kept packed with a few changes of clothes and the red one that held basic first aid supplies, then with the bags over his shoulder and his favorite sword in his left hand, he stepped into the other realm.

The creatures were indeed hungry for blood. Normally they avoided him – his little hunting expeditions had given them reason to be wary of him – but today they swarmed, and his sword dripped grayish blood long before he approached America's home.

America's first line of defenses didn't give Prussia any trouble: they were fairly simple passive things, although he supposed someone who expected America to be as simple as he pretended to be would find the maze of hills – likely modeled after his Badlands – a challenge. The second line was a bit more interesting.

Prussia had never needed to visit America's place before: he'd arrived the traditional way every time he'd come to the country. The layered defenses impressed him – he actually had to work to disarm the other realm's equivalent of motion-triggered weaponry, and he made damn sure he re-armed it all after he was past it, out of good manners.

There were no creatures here: not on America's home ground. Prussia could feel them lurking just beyond, waiting for a slip, a chance to get in. All avatars were vulnerable to human fears, particularly the fears of _their_ humans. Let those consume you and death would be a mercy.

So they all had defenses to ward against the nameless things that embodied human fears, to keep them well away from their homes, their safe places. Except Prussia had never had any place that was truly "safe". Even now, he didn't consider the home he shared with his brother safe though it was as well-defended as the two of them could make it.

Nothing was safe. Ever. He'd been born knowing that. Knowing that any defense can be breached, any protection bypassed or destroyed. There wasn't an avatar's home he couldn't enter. America might have put up a good challenge, but in the end, Prussia slipped through, into the quieter part of that other realm that represented the man's home.

Someone was waiting.

No, not someone, some_thing_. Perhaps the wizened figure had been human once, but now it merely wore a human shape, the appearance of an elderly man from one of America's first peoples. Power swirled around him, the power of years of knowledge, of arcane lore beyond Prussia's knowledge.

"What brings you to Soaring Eagle, Son of Battle?" The old man's voice didn't sound old: it was as strong and powerful as a young man in his full strength.

A challenge, of course. Prussia gave the old man a slight bow. "I'm here to help him, Guardian." He wanted to move on, enter America's home and actually do something useful, but while he might win a fight here, killing the spirit who guarded America's home was not exactly productive.

Folded arms and a cold stare was the first reply. The second was another challenge. "War will not help."

"War is inevitable." Prussia didn't need to look beyond the obvious to see that. "What I want to do is stop him turning entire nations into radioactive glass."

A long pause, then, "Will you keep him from breaking his wings, Son of Battle?"

Keep America from doing something so irredeemably stupid it would break him? Prussia wasn't sure he _could_ do that. But he was sure he couldn't walk away without trying until it broke him. "I can't guarantee that. But he'd have to kill me first."

He expected a platitude, or a denial. Expected the old man to say America would never turn on an ally like that. The old man's soft, "Let us pray it does not come to that," was enough to send chills through his spine.

#

He came out of the other realm in what he supposed was America's living room – it had a massive television playing footage of the towers falling and the Middle Eastern fools celebrating, a sofa that looked so stuffed it would swallow him, and two chairs that matched the sofa. Portraits of America's greatest presidents hung on the walls, and America himself was on his feet with his right hand shoved hard against his chest to try to stem the blood flow, while his left hand clutched the back of the sofa. He stared at the television as though the thing was a portal straight out of Hell.

Given what the box was showing, Prussia figured Hell would be an improvement.

Pain must be slowing the younger avatar's reflexes: Prussia was almost close enough to touch before America drew his revolver. With his left hand, and damn near overbalanced in the process.

Prussia darted forward, caught the man before he could fall, grunting with effort as America's quite substantial weight bore down on his shoulder. Despite the teasing America got for his love of hamburgers and cakes in eye-burning colors, there wasn't much fat on him. He was as tall as Germany if not taller, and as solidly built.

He didn't need to feel the barrel of the fucking revolver against his temple, and the way America's hand was shaking was something Prussia would really have preferred not to deal with just yet. It was fun during a battle, but when it was someone he was trying to _help_, he had to use far too much self-control to restrain his instincts.

"America! You stupid pigshit farmer, what did I tell you about keeping your weapons clean?" For battlefield command voice, it was pretty lame, although the bastard mix of eighteenth century Prussian, German, and French he used made the shout sound a lot more intimidating than it really was.

It did the job: America's body reacted as Prussia had trained him back during his Revolutionary War, which got the revolver _away_ from anywhere he'd do any damage with it. Of course, the kid was in no shape to stand to attention, so Prussia had to catch him again but this time he'd dropped the damn gun in his reflex-driven attempt to follow orders.

America looked at him as though he wasn't sure whether to believe the evidence of his own eyes. "...Prussia? What the... the fuck you doin' here?" His voice emerged slurred and heavy with pain.

Which wasn't at all surprising, considering some arse had flown two planes into his heart and blown them up there. "Helping you, kid." Prussia kept it simple. "Figured you'd need it."

The younger avatar studied him with glazed eyes before a slow frown wrinkled his face. "But... how you get in here? Got... security..."

"The same way I go anywhere." He could have lied, but Prussia usually found it easier to make statements that said absolutely nothing. "You've got yourself a decent first aid kit, right?" He hoped so because he'd rather use someone else's supplies instead of his.

"Basement," America said thickly. "Gotta... clinic." He swallowed and his eyes crossed. "C'n get there, get started."

Prussia vaguely remembered America being only one of the avatars in his land: his states, being damn near nations of their own, also had avatars. He'd met some of them, while he'd been training America. New York, brash and outgoing with darker hair but the same ready grin as the 'parent' who appeared little older than he was. Pennsylvania, who Prussia remembered as either shy or unwilling to approach him. He was pretty sure Pennsylvania was female, though. Virginia, elegant, apparently delicate, and more lethal than any of her sibling states. Little Delaware, a thoughtful boy who'd looked maybe twelve and spent a lot of time with his sister Maryland. Georgia, who looked unnervingly like a female England although – thankfully – without the eyebrows. North and South Carolina, identical twins who were possibly more dangerous than America himself, no matter that both were female.

With so many avatars in his land it was hardly surprising America had his own clinic to deal with their ailments. "Just point. I'll help you."

"No! Need you... New York." The urgency in America's voice overrode pain. "Can't... can't hold him long."

At first, Prussia was too shocked to fully realize what the other avatar was saying. Then his mouth dropped open. He let his eyes lose focus for a moment, so he could see a little of the other realm. Sure enough, there was a line of power running from America towards the city, the fallen towers. His 'son'.

Prussia closed his mouth and swallowed hard. "I'll get him." He wasn't sure what good that would do beyond possibly being able to give a mercy stroke, but he'd get the kid and bring him to America. "You be careful." He helped America over to the nearest wall. "I shouldn't be gone long." And stepped into the other realm.

#

The nameless creatures clustered thick around the glowing line of power, leeching from it. Prussia didn't take the time to deal with them properly, just slashed at them until they fled, knowing they'd be back and not caring. The important thing was to get to New York before his or America's strength ran out.

Creatures ringed the towering pillars of flame and smoke that had once been the twin towers of the World Trade Center, delighting in the pain and dying it gave off. Prussia dove through them, cold, driven, his sword dripping gray blood and his snarl telling the things as clearly as words could that standing to fight would be their destruction.

They made way for him. Possibly they thought that him entering the towers would give them a feast.

He didn't care: it would take more than that to end him. He'd survived having his country dissolved, he could survive damn near anything.

Heat built around him, so intense it leaked into this realm. It had to be hot enough to melt metal in the real world, and filled with choking, poisonous gas. He might not have experienced that kind of heat before, but he knew poisonous gas intimately. He was the one the Nazi fuckers tested it on before using it in the 'showers' at Auschwitz, after all. If it sent him into hibernation quickly enough, the batch was good to use. Survivors meant wasting bullets or soldiers having to clean bayonets. Inefficient.

Prussia stayed in the other realm until he was within a few inches of New York. The kid's pain shone like a beacon in this realm, scarlet and savage and unbearable, but he couldn't hibernate. He was holding on for his people, for the thousands Prussia could sense now, moving into the choking clouds of overheated smoke to try to find survivors, queuing at blood banks to donate, offering their services to emergency responders, doing anything, everything in their power to help their stricken city, their fellow Americans, fellow New Yorkers.

Like all their kind, the kid knew that if he let go, if he slipped into hibernation, it would hurt his people and he hung on with the stubborn determination Prussia knew from so many, many wars. It was the one thing that could be said of all their kind – they would make any sacrifice for their people, suffer any torture.

Prussia didn't leave the other realm, not fully. Instead he _twisted_ the two together for just long enough that he could grab the kid, haul him into the other realm. His clothes caught fire, his hair too. He felt his eyelids sear closed, the instinctive reaction to close his eyes sparing them – the savage heat would have melted his eyes without the protection his eyelids gave. Pain covered him, a layer of flame that eclipsed all the times he'd been burned as a witch – or a demon – by his people.

Just as well he didn't need to be able to see to find his way back to America's place. The line of power linking him and New York shone to Prussia's senses.

He shifted New York's limp body so the kid was over one shoulder and he could still use his sword. He'd need that.

#

Prussia stumbled out of the other realm into cold against his burned skin and air that smelled of antiseptics and metal and plastic. And blood.

America's voice, slurred with pain, but determined. "To your left, there's a bath there. Lower him into it."

Prussia turned, using his foot – damn it hurt, but there wasn't time to worry about that – to feel for the edge of the promised tub. Lowering the kid was hard, but the warm liquid smelled of medicinal things and more to the point, it soothed the burns and made him want to dive in there himself. His hands felt out a headrest that would keep New York's face above the surface so he could still breathe while most of his body lay in the weird treatment mix.

"I'll wash his face," America said. "You... shower, left of the bath, about three paces. Same mix."

Prussia found the shower as promised, working the unfamiliar controls by touch because he didn't feel like trying to cut his eyelids open when his hands were this badly burned. A hiss of pain escaped through clenched teeth as the first dribble of liquid ran over his skin. Building up the water pressure was even less pleasant, but once the stuff started to take effect – America must have mixed some kind of painkiller in there – it wasn't so bad.

He found a cloth by touch, used it to gently wipe the char off, pry his eyelids open.

Drying himself hurt, but he'd expected that. He'd done himself enough damage to guarantee he was going to be hurting for a while. It wasn't so bad he couldn't function, though.

When he finally got a look at America's 'clinic' he couldn't help staring. This was just one room and he could see doors leading to others. The hum of complex electronics filled the air, low enough that humans probably couldn't hear it. Most of the gear was specialized enough he couldn't begin to identify it, starting with the bath where New York lay – which was more of an immersion tub, complete with an array of sensors that wouldn't be out of place in a Hollywood blockbuster.

America knelt by the tub, still using his right hand to stem the blood from his heart.

"Is he stable?" Prussia asked. "You need to be seen to as well."

America moved faster than someone in his condition should have, and there was murder in his sky-blue eyes when he stood and turned to face Prussia. "Take me to them."

Prussia blinked.

"The fuckers behind this." Even though he was swaying on his feet, it was impossible to doubt that America would kill anyone involved in the fall of the towers. "Take me to them."

"No." Prussia didn't hesitate. "I can't allow you to do that."

The bigger avatar lurched forward, glaring. His free hand closed around Prussia's neck.

He didn't try to stop America, just matched him glare for glare. Waited, until America let go and looked away. "They were _dancing_."

"They've been told all their lives how evil you are," Prussia pointed out. "What else did you expect?"

"If I let them get away with this..."

It was the closest to rational so far. "_America_." Prussia didn't shout. He didn't have to. "Would you turn yourself into a monster to claim vengeance?" When he didn't get an answer, he switched to his command voice to demand, "What did I tell you about starting a war?"

"Don't start one you can't win."

"Apart from that." Prussia shifted from foot to foot. He wasn't sure if he should put on fresh clothes or not and the air in here was cold against his bare skin.

America blinked. "Don't start a war when you're angry." Blinked again. "Seems like that's the best time to start one."

Prussia risked a soft laugh. "You don't think clearly when you're angry. No one does. That's when bad decisions are made."

The bigger man tightened his lips and set his jaw. "I still want to kill every one of the fuckers."

"Of course you do." Prussia couldn't blame him, either. He wouldn't have minded doing the same. "That doesn't mean you _should_ do it." Time to change the subject. "What else do you need?"

America seemed to actually _see_ him, because he winced. "Um. You in clothes, first. Then this." He waved his left hand over where his right hand was practically shoved inside his chest. "Then the rest."

_#_

'The rest' turned out to be fetching America's other states. First Maryland and New Hampshire, since both states were medical researchers and the best informed when it came to treating avatars. That was the easy part.

Prussia found Virginia in a field in what he presumed was her home. She'd fallen, and dragged herself to sit with her back against a tree, and the shotgun she pointed at him made it quite clear she didn't consider him a potential rescuer. She kept the damn thing pointed at him even after he told her America had sent him to get her to safety.

He approached her slowly, with his hands open and spread wide so she could see them. "You need to get treatment, Virginia. America's worried." As he drew closer he saw why she was sitting there: her left leg had been damn near shattered. The kid had wrapped her coat around her legs to help stop the bleeding, but her face was white with pain and she was clearly dizzy from blood loss. "He said you'd be the worst hurt after New York."

She looked up, glaring at him through narrowed green eyes. "Why should I care about that stupid city brat?"

"Because he was inside one of the towers?" Prussia suggested in a gentle tone. "He might not make it."

She hissed, and her face twisted with a mix of pain and grief. "I'm sorry... I didn't..."

"Of course you didn't mean it, kid." Prussia stepped closer. "Nice work with the coat, by the way. Can you keep control of that shotgun when I carry you? The creatures are out, and they're hungry."

"I can do it." She looked a lot like England in that moment with her green eyes hard and bright in her pale face, her dark hair falling loose over her face.

"Good." Another step. "I'm going to pick you up now. It'll hurt like hell and there's nothing I can do about that."

Virginia clenched her teeth and tightened her grip on her shotgun, then she nodded.

She stiffened when he lifted her, because there wasn't anything Prussia could do that wouldn't jar her shattered leg, and a keening wail got past her clenched teeth. He was impressed: the kid had control and was as stubborn as America himself.

Once he held her he stepped into the other realm and hurried back, running as smoothly as he could while Virginia cleared the way with shotgun blasts that seemed to be faster than that model could cycle and didn't need to reload when she should have.

He emerged with to a slightly less worrisome scene than he'd left: America bandaged and drugged and half asleep in a chair beside New York's medicinal bath, with Maryland and New Hampshire ready to take Virginia and start work on her.

"I'll be back with Pennsylvania," he promised them.

#

He found her in a field where the wreckage of a fourth plane and left a black scar dug into the land, edged with small fires. She was trying to force open one of the emergency hatches despite the blistering heat, the clear evidence that there were no survivors. Tears left white streaks down her face where they'd washed soot away.

"Pennsylvania." He didn't shout, but he didn't try to hide his approach either.

"You've got to help me get them out, I can hear them screaming!" She tugged at the half-melted door again. "Please!"

_Ah, fuck_. Prussia carefully wrapped his arms around her, not tight, just there so she could leave any time she wanted. "It's the memories you're hearing, not them. They're... not hurting any more." With the touch he sent her a little of his own strength, to help heal the burn-edged gash he could feel running from just under her ribs on the right to near her navel.

Pennsylvania shuddered. "I tried..." she whimpered. "I got here as soon as I could..."

"I know." There really wasn't much else he could say. "Let me take you to America."

She turned to face him.

Prussia nearly choked. Under the coating of soot and dirt Pennsylvania's hair was as white as his, and her eyes were red. Like his. America's bone structure, yes, but the way she looked at him could have been his sister's expression...

A flash of memory, Austerlitz, back in the early 19th century.

_Watching France wait with the little Corsican until the battle was joined. Prussia fought as a regular soldier, with soot smeared in his hair and a coating of grime to hide his pale skin. It was a war, of course he and Maria were there. His sister, as much Prussia as he was. She'd braided her hair and dyed it with henna, bound her breasts and wore a man's uniform. In the chaos of battle it was easy to work their way to their brother Holy Rome, to be just two more bodies among the many in his regiment. Then it all went wrong._

_He hadn't paid attention to the strategy – why should he, it wasn't his fight. Wasn't his war. All he was there for was the blood and protecting his little brother even though he and Holy Rome had their disagreements. But the kid was weak, still broken from the Thirty Years War, and Austria never noticed that or cared. Now he realized Austria and Russia had been led into a clever trap. They were going to lose._

_France at the head of a small cavalry force, pushing to Holy Rome's position, France's blue eyes blazing with the fire of war. He wasn't France the lover now, he was the French Empire, as ruthless and bloodthirsty and terrible as Prussia himself, and Prussia knew Holy Rome couldn't defend himself against that. _

_Maria's sword catching France's blade on the downstroke while Prussia struggled through a tangle of fighting men, knowing he couldn't reach them in time, but still trying, still fighting... _

_Flash of steel and blood and Maria falling, her head toppling one way, her body the other. _

_Holy Rome folding over France's blood-smeared sword, crumpling._

_France brandishing the bloodstained banner of Holy Rome, carrying it back to the Corsican in triumph._

_Then, only then could he break through the slaughter around him to a space that was clear of fighting only because nothing living remained. _

_His sister's body was gone, already faded. The second avatar, the sibling, was always the weaker. Her filthy stolen uniform lay empty on the trampled ground, nothing more than tattered bloodied fabric. Her sword – just a plain blade, regular army issue – broken on the ground beside the clothes, probably trampled by France's horse. _

_All that was left of her was her cross. He picked that up and held it, eyes burning. His other half was gone. Lost. _

_Holy Rome wasn't dead yet. He'd slipped into hibernation, his body cold, only the senses of an avatar able to tell the boy lived. Prussia gathered the unmoving avatar into his arms and returned home, where Holy Rome could at least die with dignity. _

"Prussia?" The voice hauled him back from his memories. Pennsylvania. _Not_ his sister, although possibly his child in the odd way avatars of lands strongly influenced by another's people counted it. His child, or Maria's.

"Sorry." He swallowed. "You look like my sister." Tried to focus on her, not his memories.

"Is New York...?" She couldn't finish the question.

"It's chancy," Prussia told her. "He's holding on and he's not hibernating."

She swallowed, and nodded. "Thank you." Wrapped her arms around him as though she actually _trusted_ him. "I think... I'm ready now."

#

After that, retrieving the District of Columbia was easy. He'd gone into hibernation despite not being hurt at all – apparently the kid reacted badly to the unexpected at the best of time, and this when he'd convinced himself of what sounded to Prussia like a massive load of shit straight out of the old KGB propaganda factories had been enough to send him into shock. At least, that was Virginia's assessment.

Prussia didn't know the kid, so he wasn't going to make that call, but the DC's land _was_ a constructed place as well as being America's capital, so it was pretty likely Virginia was right. A place built for politicians was going to get pretty damned warped no matter what you did.

By the time he'd fetched the rest of the eastern states and had started on the mid-west, Prussia ached all over. It didn't help that DC was the only one who hadn't been hostile, and it helped even less that the half-healed burns were itching. The lump just under his collarbones where his Iron Cross had melted onto his bones burned as well as itched.

He would have liked to fetch himself beer and drink until the alcohol dulled the pain, but he couldn't afford that. Between gathering states he'd talked America down several times, pulling the other man back from the rage that would lead him to insanity. Protecting him from himself.

Georgia emerged from the door that led down to the basement clinic. "You need to get Mother."

He blinked. "I thought America's sister-avatar died."

She shook her head. "She wanted Daddy to think that. He did burn her heart – and mine – to the ground." There wasn't any anger in the comment, just old sadness. "It was a bad time."

Prussia didn't need to say that this was going to be another 'bad time'. All America's states so far had figured that out. "It happens. How bad is she likely to be hurt?"

Georgia narrowed her eyes. "Bad enough she'll have the guns out ready to use, I think. Mother can shoot the eye out of a striking snake and she'll be mad as well as hurting."

Oh, this was getting better all the time.

"She should only be able to use one at a time, though." That soft accent shouldn't be so threatening. "Her right shoulder will be a mess."

Prussia just nodded. "Think of her for me so I can get a line to her." He'd been doing this all morning: once more wouldn't kill him.

Almost immediately the image of a tall woman with her hair pulled back in a severe style that made her face look sharp and disapproving flashed in his mind. Glasses, sky blue eyes narrowed, and that stray bit of hair that refused to be tamed, just like America's. She preferred older styles: the fifties was the last decade she'd cared for the clothes. A woman should be a woman, and rule her home – and her world – with feminine skill and strength.

Prussia's mouth was dry. He had absolutely no doubt that America's sister was the more formidable of the two – and that she probably never once raised her voice in anger. She never needed to. "I'll bring her here."

He knew, even then, that it wasn't going to be that easy.

#

It wasn't as bad as he'd feared. It was worse.

To start with the female America – 'America ma'am' Georgia told him to call her – had stronger defenses than her brother. She'd even contrived to recruit some of the nameless creatures to guard her home, which meant he had to creep past them since killing the guards was a really bad way to convince anyone you were there to help them.

If that wasn't enough, her Guardian insisted on a blood trial, refusing to consider the possibility that Prussia might be friendly until he'd offered blood to what appeared to be an ancient altar but was certainly something else. Something hungry.

In the other realm, nothing was exactly what it seemed, not even avatars.

He finally emerged in a darkened room that smelled of dust and too long closed up. With the defenses and Georgia's warnings, he figured he'd best not emerge too close to America ma'am.

"Who's there?"

Prussia very nearly lost his awesome. He most certainly did not shriek like a little girl because that would not be awesome. But he did make a noise that could, if you weren't that fussy how you described it, be called a squeak.

"You get your sweet self out where I can see you right this minute."

Now Prussia understood _why_ this was 'America ma'am'. She wasn't shouting, but her voice was pitched perfectly to carry. There was no overt threat, but he could tell if he didn't do as she said, he'd be dodging bullets, and that wasn't his favorite pastime. "I'm coming, uh... America ma'am." That just didn't sound right. "Georgia asked me to do this."

At least he could see the door. He couldn't tell what this room was supposed to be: all the furniture was shrouded with cloth, presumably to protect it from the thick layer of dust he tried not to disturb too much. One thing not even his awesome could do was fight effectively when he was sneezing.

The door handle groaned when he turned it and the door creaked on its hinges.

"Bless your soul, child, why would Georgia send you into my storeroom?"

Prussia had been warned. If America ma'am used the words 'bless your soul' he was in deep trouble and probably couldn't save himself no matter how fast he ran.

The sound of a – Smith and Wesson, he thought, they were pitched a bit higher – being cocked told him Georgia hadn't been exaggerating. If he'd been a human burglar he _would_ be running.

"I just got a little disoriented," he explained, following that so-regal voice along a hallway to an open door. "I came here the fast way, you see, because Georgia was so worried about... er, you don't have to point it at me, you know."

America ma'am stood against the far wall of what looked like a bedroom, using the wall to help support her weight, but there was nothing fragile about the revolver aimed squarely at his chest. If she pulled the trigger he'd be in a world of hurt.

Georgia's mental image didn't do the woman justice: this close he could feel the ready humor behind the controlled lady, feel the warmth she didn't show unless she trusted. The pain too, pain of her brother's betrayal and the war that had torn the two of them apart, still raw after nearly a hundred and fifty years.

She gave him an appraising look. "It's a long time since I've had another national avatar visit, young man." The revolver in her left hand didn't waver. "They usually want something a lady doesn't give."

"I don't want anything of the sort." He kept his hands in view, palms open. "You're hurt: you need treatment."

America ma'am frowned. "This little scratch ain't going to kill me."

What Prussia could see of her shoulder was anything but a 'little scratch'. He could smell the burned flesh from where he stood across the room.

"Now you introduce yourself properly before I introduce you to Mr Peacemaker here."

He couldn't argue with her calling the fucking revolver 'Mr Peacemaker'. It would make peace all right: the peace of the grave. He was pretty sure that thing was a 44 magnum, and those packed a hell of a punch. "I'm the Awesome Prussia." Even if he didn't feel that awesome right now, what with his skin itching and half-healed burns _everywhere_ and his body trying to tell him he was way overdue for some quality time with food and beer.

A bit of a smile touched her lips. "You'll have to excuse me, Mister Awesome Prussia, but I don't see much awesome right now."

Prussia found himself wondering if reuniting America with his sister-avatar was a good idea. She was a _lot_ sharper than he pretended to be. Not that America was dumb, but he played the clueless idiot so well a lot of people thought that was all there was. The rest of the world might get ideas if they discovered this so-sharp _lady_ was his sister-avatar.

He shrugged. "It got burned off when I went into one of the towers to get New York. I'm still sore and itchy so the awesome's not quite so clear."

America ma'am didn't say anything for a long time. When she did speak her voice was softer, almost timid. "You went... _into_ the towers?"

Prussia just shrugged again. "Only way to get the kid. He was in there when the plane hit."

Her eyes opened wide. "Take me to him." Then narrowed, this time in determination. "We might have our differences but he is still my son."

"That's what I'm here to do," Prussia told her. "So if you'd point that thing somewhere else, it would be my pleasure to take you to your family."

#

Prussia had to retreat from America's basement clinic to get away from the seriously anti-awesome sentimental shit that started as soon as America realized he hadn't killed his sister-avatar after all and didn't fucking stop for way too long after that. He'd drink America's crappy beer just as an antidote to all that feelings stuff.

It was much simpler to work with strategy and logistics. Give him transporting an army through a thousand miles of hostile terrain over a family reunion any day.

Except him and West, of course, although there were times he wasn't too sure about that, either. Mostly when his oh-so-anal little brother got his lederhosen in a knot about some incomprehensible modern social rule Prussia had just blasted to dust. Kid had always been uptight, but in the time they'd been separated by the Iron Curtain he'd got way too neurotic.

It took him a while to realize the dull pounding wasn't his head aching from too much family reunion but someone banging on America's door.

"Goddammit, I shouldn't have fucking bothered," he muttered even as he followed the sound through America's far too large house – he regularly had all his states here, so it wasn't like the place was a palace. Just a huge rambling farmhouse with some really _odd_ extras. Like that clinic in the basement.

The pounding didn't let up until he found the door and hauled it open, to see a worried-looking soldier. "Mr America, Sir, we've got... Wait... you're not -"

Prussia's best command voice hit him before he could get any further. The edge of irritation probably helped. "What the fuck kind of baby are they putting in uniform here, soldier? Get your commanding officer over here _yesterday_."

The man was running before it registered that he didn't have a clue who'd just ordered him around.

Prussia snickered a bit. Poor sap would be so freaked out he'd go straight to the commanding officer anyhow. Where – if America's army was half as competent as Prussia had trained them back during the kid's revolution – he'd get his arse reamed.

There were enough men here he should get a Major at least, if not a Colonel. With the attack – and by now it was common knowledge that the fourth plane had been intended for the White House – all flights were grounded and there were fighters ready to scramble at _anything_ in America's airspace, anything that wanted to come after the avatar would need to go by land. At least by human reckoning, which meant America was being guarded by a whole lot of rather bored men.

Bored enough that Prussia's little exercise got him a cluster of... hm, looked like half a dozen men sprinting for him, weapons at the ready. Well, good. If they were here to protect the kid they'd better be doing it right. Others followed more slowly, and _they_ had their rifles aimed at him, too.

He smiled and straightened, not to full attention but somewhere between that and at ease.

The leader _was_ a Colonel. "Stand down. He's on the list."

Prussia didn't ask. Of course there'd be a list of avatars America was known to socialize with – as well as one that held the avatars who were not permitted within a hundred meters unless they were under guard. The surprising thing was that he was on the 'trusted' list and not the 'never in a million years' list. Most of the avatars had him in the latter category by default.

The Colonel didn't salute – you didn't, not to someone who belonged to a different army altogether. "Mr Prussia, perhaps you could explain why you sent one of my men running for me?" It wasn't a question, either.

Prussia gave him the courtesy of a straight answer. "First, America's injured. Your man should have been pretty fucking sure that whoever answered was _not_ going to be America, but he started blurting out his message before he realized I wasn't who he wanted. Second, he didn't even _reach_ for a weapon when he realized. Third, he didn't have the damn thing ready when I opened the door. He'd been pounding that door long enough to have considered that it just might be an enemy on the other side."

The man blinked. Nodded once. "Can Mr America come to the door?"

"He's sedated. It would be a bad idea." Prussia had no doubt the man who'd carried the original message was going to be regretting his laxness. He could see it in the way the Colonel's eyes narrowed, the tightness of his jaw. "So who's claiming to be whom?" Obvious hostiles would have been dealt with, probably by shooting them. Any humans America employed would be known and let through, which left visiting avatars or the occasional lost human. The latter would have been redirected, so the only remotely likely option was another avatar. Most likely one of the states within driving range.

It took the man a moment to collect himself enough to say, "Three people, Mr Prussia. One of them looks like Canada, but he doesn't feel right. The other two claim they're Ohio and Michigan."

Canada must have driven like an absolute maniac to be here this fast, if he'd come overland and not used the other ways. It looked like the kid still hadn't got a handle on that fading trick of his, either. Prussia was going to have to teach him to control that before he got himself – or more likely, someone else – killed. Fading to the level where a _human_ couldn't tell he was something else was damn dangerous. All it would take was one predator – or a situation like this – and there would be a slaughter.

"He does that when he's stressed." And driving a ridiculous distance while worrying over his brother was a guarantee of a stressed Canada. Prussia had to wonder, didn't he have _enough_ to worry about?

He cut the thought off. It was a guarantee of a new shitstorm.

"Tell you what, Colonel, I'll take responsibility." The words weren't chosen lightly: he was effectively agreeing to take the blame if he misjudged. To stand as proxy for America's judgment.

#

It _was_ Canada, Ohio, and Michigan. Prussia waited until he'd got all three cleared with the Colonel and inside – with the door safely closed and fucking _locked_ – before he leaned against the wall, closed his eyes and slumped. "Do not ask me how I got here. Do not ask me fucking anything. There's a happy little reunion going on in the basement clinic. You'll find America and most of the eastern states there. New York is bad. Everyone else who's hurt will be fine. Go on and let me get real friendly with America's shitty beer."

Instead, Canada shooed the two states to the basement and guided Prussia through the house to the living room – or at least that was what Prussia thought it was – before all but pushing him onto the sofa. "You look like shit."

Prussia was quite happy to fall over and lie with his head cushioned by the sofa. "I feel like shit. Beer will help. What the fuck kind of maniac drives from western Ontario to here in a fucking _day_? You must have been damn near flying."

Canada laughed, a soft sound that was somewhere between snickering and giggling. "I was already in Detroit for some business thing with Michigan that I've already forgotten about. We picked up Ohio on the way."

Apparently Prussia was getting old. He didn't remember getting this tired after his epic forced marches or long battles. Although a lot of those _had_ been on soil he could claim.

He heard Canada leave, and allowed himself to relax. This was almost as close to friendly territory as his home with Germany was. It wouldn't hurt to sleep a bit, deal with the worst of the weariness.

And then, so help him, he was going to raid America's beer supply if it was the last thing he did.


End file.
